


Masks

by NyxEtoile, OlivesAwl



Series: Reconstruction [3]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: College, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Long-Term Relationship(s), POV Alternating, POV Character of Color, Self-Discovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-28
Updated: 2017-01-02
Packaged: 2018-08-27 11:46:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 48,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8400475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NyxEtoile/pseuds/NyxEtoile, https://archiveofourown.org/users/OlivesAwl/pseuds/OlivesAwl
Summary: 1999


  T'Challa made his way down the line until he found the pair. The not-drinker was a pretty, busty redhead in a green sundress. The taste-tester was a tall, curvy girl with skin as dark as his and a positively  distracting ass.


  The redhead saw him first, blinked, elbowed her friend and said, "Oh, turn around."


  She did so quickly, her bottle of Zima sloshing. Her front was as good as the back. He was heir to a throne, he'd had women of all sorts throwing themselves at him since he was about 14. But this girl was something else. "There are Black people at Stanford," she said, then winced, scrunched up her nose, and looked accusatorially at her drink.


  Her friend covered her eyes with a hand, but he grinned. "At least two," he confirmed. "Three, actually, my roommate wandered off."


  She grinned back. "I'm Monica," she said.


  "T'Challa." He held his hand out. When she took it, he lifted it to kiss the back of her fingers. "A pleasure."





	1. Chapter 1

_August, 1999_

People had certain expectations of what someone named Monica Lindstrom from Deer Creek, Minnesota would look like, and she was never, ever it.

In her defense, she'd sent her roommate a letter—a paper letter, since her parents were still holding the line against allowing the Demon Internet in their house—in which she provided details of her life, including the fact that she'd been adopted from Ethiopia by a couple of American missionaries.

That did not, apparently, do anything prevent the wide-eyed stare she got from perky redhead standing across from her in the room they would share for the next year. It was only going to get weirder when her brother came upstairs with the next load of her stuff. Nobody ever expected Justin Lindstrom to look Vietnamese. Regular Benetton Ad, their family was. She squared her shoulders. "Hi. I'm Monica."

Her new roommate blinked a few times, then gave herself a little shake and stuck out a hand. "Tamara. Nice to meet you."

The letter telling her who her roommate assignment had only given her a name and address. Tamara was from Oregon, which was, according to the last census, whiter than Minnesota. This would be a learning experience for both of them. Monica put her suitcase on the bed that had been left for her. The door opened and Justin came in with another suitcase and two boxes. "We should have flown. You'd have brought less shit if we'd flown."

"But we'd have missed the quality family fun of a road trip," she replied.

"Well, hello," Justin said to Tamara, unceremoniously dumping Monica's boxes down.

Monica rolled her eyes and sighed. "Justin, don't." She turned and looked at Tamara. "This is my creeper of a little brother. Ignore him."

She grinned. "Got it. Hey, once you've settled, my dad gave me a Visa gift card thing so I could get some stuff to decorate. You wanna come along help pick stuff out?"

She blinked at her in surprise. "I would love that."

"Our parents are on their way up," Justin said, then added, "They're white."

She pinched the bridge of her nose. "Jesus, Justin."

Tamara shook her head. "I have five brothers, I don't even hear him. Maybe your parents will donate to the decorative cause."

"I wouldn't hold my breath," she said with a sigh, just as they barged into the door. They were their usual overwhelming selves. Her mother cried, her father fussed, and Justin smirked at them. It took the better part of an hour before all the goodbyes were complete. Her mother really wanted to help her set up her room, but Monica had just as strong a desire to do this—something—on her own.

"Don't fall in with a bad crowd," her mother warned as they got in the car. Her mother was paranoid about this. Monica was pretty sure "bad crowd" meant "other Black people", but Karen Lindstrom was too polite to actually admit that.

"Mom. It's Stanford. I don't think there's a campus ghetto."

"I'll keep an eye on her Mrs. Lindstrom," Tamara offered. After introductions, she'd given them space for their production. When her mom looked over, she folded her hands in front of her and arranged her face into a pleasant, harmless white-girl smile. "We'll stick together."

"Thank you," her mother said, and then with more hugs and crying they finally—finally—went.

Tamara waited until the car was out of sight before turning to her and saying, "I'm not much of a drinker, but if you need to find a party tonight I will totally drunk sit you."

"I didn't exactly party with the popular crowd," she replied, then winced. She had a problem with honesty.

"Eh, this is college. I don't think it works that way anymore." She slid an arm through Monica's. "Come on. Let's go back upstairs and grab my purse. There's some flower shaped rugs and Christmas lights with our names on them."

Tamara, as it turned out, was just about Monica's polar opposite, but somehow it worked. She was was friendly and gregarious, and wouldn't let Monica be shy by sheer force of personality. She was a welcome touchstone and support that first week of school—though she only reinforced Monica's lifelong feeling that she was wearing the wrong skin, or the wrong body.

"We were lame last weekend. Understandably," Tamara told her Friday afternoon. "But this is our first full weekend at college. We need to find a party."

Monica cast about for an excuse. "I don't have anything to wear."

"You can borrow anything you want from my closet."

She could only stare at her roommate like she's grown a second head. "On what alternate plane of existence do you imagine I would fit in your pants." 

"So borrow a dress or a skirt. Or wear what you're wearing now. It's a college party, not the opera. There's no dress code."

"Unless you have a hidden taste in tents, your dresses and skirts won't fit either." She looked down at her t-shirt and jeans, which were loose and comfortable and pretty damn frumpy. "I'm not going to a party in this."

Not one to be undeterred, Tamara smiled. "Sounds like we're gong shopping, then."

"I hate shopping."

"Then you will make your decisions quickly to get it over with." She started steering her towards the closest Marguerite Shuttle pick up. "Not letting this go, Lindstrom. Just give in."

"No, but I'm serious. I have to shop in the old lady section at Macy's." Shopping had always been torment. And embarrassing opportunity for her mother's endless well-meaning criticism.

Tamara paused and studied her a moment. "Okay. Teeny bit of tough love coming at you, brace yourself. I'm not your mom. I don't think you're fat. I think you have a fantastic ass and dress all wrong for your body. So, I am cashing in whatever good will I have earned and asking you to trust me for the next-" She paused and looked at her watch. "Two hours. We will find you something to wear to a party. If we don't, I will buy you Starbucks and a cupcake."

"I have the ass of a hippopotamus, but I will humor you, because I like cupcakes. Which probably explains the ass."

"Whatever, agreement is agreement. Shuttle stop, march."

There was a massive outdoor mall literally down the road from campus. It full of sun and shade and trees, right amid the stores, and was just the sort of place that reminded her why Palo Alto won over Boston. At the very least, she'd enjoy the experience of shopping a little more than in the dreary, monochromatic mall in her hometown.

Tamara didn't take her to the old lady section of Macy's or any of the collection of old lady and/or soccer mom stores that dotted the mall. She steered her into a parade of stores, studying sizes and styles. Monica was starting to ponder what kind of cupcake she'd get when she abruptly thrust a pile of jeans and shirts into her hand and pointed her for the dressing rooms.

She couldn't keep track of what store they were in anymore, though it amused her a lot that the music had gotten progressively louder and with more of a beat to it the further along they went. The first store had been playing Sarah McLachlan. This one was currently playing Lauryn Hill. So she tried the damn pants on, even though she had to jump around to get in them.

They buttoned and zipped without too much drama. When she looked in the mirror she was surprised to find said hippo butt fit in them remarkably well. Nothing bulged too unpleasantly so she opened the dressing took door and showed Tamara.

Her brows when up and she gestured for her to turn. When she was facing her again all she said was, "See?"

"You sure they're not too tight?" They were bootcut. Her mother used to tell her that wasn't flattering.

"Dude you look _awesome_." She came over and fidgeted the waist a bit, then stepped back again. "You've got curves. You need to wear stuff that's cut to fit them, not hide them. You're eighteen, flaunt it."

Monica took a deep breath. "Okay. Shirts."

Shirts didn't take quite as long as the pants, but Monica did spend most of it hearing her mother's voice in her head fussing about showing too much cleavage. Tamara, at least, was also rather well endowed on top and understood the struggle. She actually joined her in trying a few on once she saw them on Monica. They left the store with some very large bags.

"I'll still get you a cupcake if you want," Tamara offered. "You were a good sport."

"Oh, we should absolutely reward ourselves with food."

Tamara grinned and they hiked down to the bakery at one end of the mall. They have about a dozen flavors and after much discussion they agreed splitting three of them was the only sensible decision.

"So now that we've done this. . . where are we going to find this party?"

She shrugged negligently. "I'll ask around. There's bound to be something."

Monica fiddled with her cupcake for a moment. "Do you think somewhere in this mall there might be makeup that looks good on my face? Selection back home was poor, and my mother was opposed."

Tamara's brows went up. "Have you ever heard of M.A.C cosmetics?"

"Vaguely."

"It's whole thing is that it's for every skin tone, even really dark. If they don't have stuff that'll look good on you, nothing will. And they usually have people working the counter that'll do your face for you. My oldest sister in law does photography, she loves it."

And that was how Monica ended up spending another hundred dollars of her book money on makeup. But damn if she didn't come out looking fabulous.

"You are so ready for your first college party," Tamara said as they rode the shuttle home.

"I'm slightly concerned I might look like a hooker. . . but mostly I am excited, too."

"If you're a hooker I assure you, no one on campus could afford you."

She laughed. "I don't know. I think there are some really rich people here."

"Exactly my point."

"Now we just need to find somewhere to be."

*

T'Challa's father liked lists. There had been a verbal list before he'd gotten on the plane. A printed list waiting for him _on_ the plane. And the minute his university email account had been turned on, the lists had started coming in electronic form.

The lists alternated between being about goals and being about behavior. His father really did not want him to enjoy himself.

"How many times is going to tell you not to drink? I thought this was like Rumspringa." His roommate was one of the few people on campus who knew who he was. Jay had needed to be carefully vetted because of the close quarters—T'Challa wanted a normal room like a normal person. Stanford, apparently used to the vagaries of dealing with students who were rich, famous, and royal, had been very accommodating. 

"I don't know what Rumspringa is." An American thing, he hoped, and not something his father would want him to remember. He shut the lid of his laptop—a machine that was tragic compared to what they had back home in Wakanda, yet had caused Jay to pronounce that yes, he was in fact rich.

"It's when Amish kids get to leave the reservation and see everything they've been missing." Jay sent a toy basketball flying towards the little hoop he'd hooked over the back of their door. "If you're going to college in America, you should get the American college experience."

"I am not disagreeing. My father is on the other side of the world."

"Good. Because I think you're going to be a hottie magnet. Chicks dig accents."

He was certain there was a section on fraternizing somewhere in the lists. But again, Baba was thousands of miles away. He had very little homework and none of it due until lunchtime Monday. "What did you have in mind?"

"That we go find somewhere with booze and hotties. Obviously."

"Oh. Obviously."

The venn diagram of hotties and booze on that particular night was a party somebody had invited Jay to at one of the on-campus apartments. Or, rather, several of the apartments. Near as he could tell several neighbors had planned a party - either together or separately - and students were milling through several different rooms. 

He had no idea how Jay found these things, but there was certainly plenty of alcohol. And he'd need plenty of it—the funniest part about the "no drinking" emails was that American drinks were incredibly weak and it would take a tremendous amount to get T'Challa drunk. 

_That_ angle, though, had not been explained to Jay. People outside of Wakanda knew very little about their vibranium, and absolutely nothing about its effect on the citizens. His strength would probably be noticeable at some point, but for now he was happy to pretend to be normal.

Jay handed him a bottle of something called Zima, which tasted terrible and had such a low alcohol content back home they'd probably give it to children. If it tasted better.

"That is a hilarious face you're making," Jay informed him, taking a swig of his own bottle. "Not your speed?"

"Not. . .exactly, no." He perused the crowd, which contained a selection of pale women so identically dressed it was hard to tell them apart. Tight black pants, a tank top of some pastel, and sandals with giant platform soles. Occasionally there was a short skirt, though the tank top and shoes never varied. Strangely coordinated hairstyles full of tiny clips. He was dubious of Jay's definition of a "hottie", but it seemed rude to specifically ask if he could locate any girls who looked like they might eat actual food. 

"Guy who invited me did not mention it was going to be the mayo and Wonderbread fest up in here."

T'Challa didn't really know what he meant by that. Sometimes the slang still missed him. "I'm going to go find a stronger drink."

"Good luck. I'll catch up with you later."

He wandered deeper into the apartment, smiling and nodding at random people. If there was one thing he'd learned, it was dealing with crowds. Eventually he found the makeshift bar and asked them for the strongest thing they had, which turned out to be some kind of rum. It was cloyingly sweet to his tastes, but at least it burned a little. 

There were two girls farther down the bar and he heard a snippet of their conversation. "I told you, I'm really not much of a drinker, but if you want to try something I'll make sure you get back to our room."

There was more murmuring he didn't hear, then a different voice said, "This tastes like sprite mixed with bathroom cleaner. I'm not sure I want to consume enough that I'll need help getting home." That was an apt description of the first drink Jay had handed him.

"My brother let me have a sip of wine at this wedding. It tasted like cough medicine."

Well, there were worse things to bond over than the terrible tastes of alcohol. T'Challa made his way down the line until he found the pair. The not-drinker was a pretty, busty redhead in a green sundress. The taste-tester was a tall, curvy girl with skin as dark as his and a positively distracting ass.

The redhead saw him first, blinked, elbowed her friend and said, "Oh, turn around."

She did so quickly, her bottle of Zima sloshing. Her front was as good as the back. He was heir to a throne, he'd had women of all sorts throwing themselves at him since he was about 14. But this girl was something else. "There _are_ Black people at Stanford," she said, then winced, scrunched up her nose, and looked accusatorially at her drink. 

Her friend covered her eyes with a hand, but he grinned. "At least two," he confirmed. "Three, actually, my roommate wandered off."

She grinned back. "I'm Monica," she said. She turned a little. "This is—"

"Tamara," her friend filled in quickly. "I'm think I see someone from my statistics class over there, I'm going to say hi." She turned and bolted.

"Well, I hope you weren't coming over here to hit on her," Monica said, watching her friend go.

"No," he said. "I was coming to commiserate on how terrible the alcohol is." He inclined his head. "And flirt with you."

"Well all right then." She looked him up and down. "You got a name?"

"T'Challa." He held his hand out. When she took it, he lifted it to kiss the back of her fingers. "A pleasure."

She giggled a little. "Okay, now you have to tell me which country and/or century you are from."

He grinned. "Africa, and this one, believe it or not." He had discovered, rather depressingly, Americans often accepted "Africa" as a country of origin. It did allow him to lie less, though.

"You just wandered the continent aimlessly like a nomad?"

Of course she'd be the one to realize that was a stupid answer. "Most people accept that as a country."

"This is Stanford, surely we have a better class of idiot." She took a sip of her drink and wrinkled her nose. "If I were a cynic, I'd take the coy as meaning the accent was fake, and you are in fact from Detroit." She pointed her bottle at him. "I'd tell you I was born in Addis Ababa, Ethiopia, you'd panic and insist you were someplace weird and impossible to disprove like Wakanda."

It took real effort not to grin like a cat. "Kenya," he said, the approved and accepted story he was to tell. "Just outside of Nairobi. You're from Ethiopia?" She had no discernible accent. "When did you move to the States?"

"I was adopted when I was four, out of an orphanage. I remember the orphanage but not how I got there. My parents were Missionaries."

"Ah. And where did you grow up?"

She smiled ruefully. "A very small, very white town in Minnesota."

"Minnesota." The look on her face indicated he'd messed up the pronunciation. Or made it better, with his accent. "That's in the middle somewhere."

"That is an exceedingly apt description." She shrugged. "My life has been kind of weird. I don't entirely fit in anywhere, you know?" 

Being raised as a prince probably didn't translate. But he understood a little what it was like to feel apart from the people around you. "It must have been difficult. To not look like anyone else. No one with the same experiences."

"My parents mean well." She sounded like she said that a lot. "They tried. But I don't think they ever really understood."

"And now you are here." He gestured to the room in general. "And you've met someone who looks like you."

"There _are_ others. I see them in class and on campus. There are whole formal Student Organizations. It's just like. . .Our skin tones match, let's be friends? Still trying to figure that angle out. Culturally I'm from a different planet. A familiar sensation, I imagine," she said with a gesture at him. "Maybe we should be friends."

He grinned and inclined his head. "I think that's an excellent idea."

She clinked her drink against his. "Just to get this out of the way, I'm not hooking up with you tonight. Not saying never or anything. But I'm really lousy at coy, so I'll get it out of the way." 

"I had not planned on it either," he assured her. "Besides, your friend as been casting us looks from various points around the room the entire time we've been talking. I am quite sure if I tried anything I'd have to face her wrath as well as yours."

Monica laughed. "She's. . . protective."

"It's good," he said gently. "To have someone watching your back."

"The world is a dangerous place, and college parties are full of drunk asshole?"

"I think that's a fair assessment." He glanced at his drink. "Though anyone who gets drunk on this had other problems."

She leaned over to look at his glass, giving him a _very_ nice cleavage view. "That smells plenty strong."

"I've been assured it is rum," he told her, trying not to stare. "You're welcome to try it."

"No, I have the alcohol tolerance of a third grader. That would be a great way for you to get kicked in the head by Tamara."

"A fate I sincerely hope to avoid." He took another sip of his drink. "It is sweet but has a burn to it. You might like it, someday." He glanced around the room. "Would you like to find somewhere quieter to sit. You could bring Tamara, to hover at the edges like a Victorian chaperone."

"The weather's probably nicer outside." She glanced around. "Hang on a sec," she said, and went over to talk to her friend. He watched them talk and gesture for a moment. Tamara was clearly skeptical of this plan. There was a lot of arm motion and gesturing.

Finally, Monica returned. "I have convinced her I'm sober and you're not a serial killer. She has requested we stay in the courtyard outside the apartment so she can check on me from the window and hear my panicked screams."

He laughed, and thought about the argument he and his father had had about bodyguards. T'Challa had told him he didn't want someone snooping over his shoulder while he was trying to socialize. "Courtyard it is."

He set his drink down and gestured for her to precede him through the crowd. They managed to make their way out to the stairs and head outside. After checking the windows a moment he positioned them where her friend would be able to see them and waved jauntily.

She rubbed her eyes. "I am so sorry."

"It's fine. You're lucky to have a friend like that."

"She's my roommate. I got her by random draw. I haven't known her that long. But she is the reason I am wearing these admittedly fabulous pants."

That was practically an invitation to check out her ass. "I owe her my gratitude."

She smiled and lowered her eyes. "Thank you."

"What are you studying?" he asked.

"I. . . have no idea. My parents really want me to do some sort of engineering. I'm good at math but I don't really like it, so, I don't know. How about you?"

"Political science. But I'm hoping to squeeze in a minor of something more. . . frivolous. My father has rather lofty goals for me, as well."

"Wants you to run or some sort of office? Is he a politician?"

And this is where it got dangerous. "Yes, but not one who makes headlines. He is. . . very progressive, for our country. And hopes I will carry the torch."

She didn't press. "That's good. Politics is messy and sometimes dangerous in that part of the world. Takes a different sort of person than the empty hairdos you see in the US."

"It is more of a calling than a career," he agreed. "If you are good at math but don't like it, what is something you like?"

She looked almost surprised by the question. "Music," she said. "I write songs." 

His brows went up but he smiled. "And do you sing? Or play?"

"Both. I play the piano and I sing. I sang in the church choir at home, though they complained I was too loud."

"No such thing," he assured her. "I'd love to hear you sing some time."

She gave him a look that said she thought it was idle flattery. "Yeah, no. I don't think I'm ready for an audience again."

"When you are, then," he said easily. Pushing probably wouldn't win him any favors.

She nudged him with her knee. "So what do you do for fun? Got anything you're good at?"

He considered a moment. "Marital arts. And I like to read. I'm not familiar with American sports, but soccer and a game similar to rugby are popular where I'm from."

"Martial arts, eh? Tamara would still probably find a way to kick your ass."


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Halloween! This is technically late, but I'm going to try to do a Mon/Wed post schedule for this fic, and get some others going up by the end of the week.

They sat outside on that retaining wall for the entire rest of the party. It was one of those conversations people tell you you'll have in college, where you spend hours with someone you never met discussing the past and the present and the fate of the universe. Somewhere around one or two AM, people began drifting out of the apartment building as the party wound down. Monica looked up to see Tamara's red hair in the crowd. She was talking to some guy in a baseball cap. Looks like the evening had been interesting for her, too.

She was grinning like an idiot, but broke away and made her way over to Monica and T'Challa. "Hi. You're alive and you're not a creep. Best possible outcome."

"And you made a friend," she replied. She turned and looked and T'Challa. "I should go."

"Of course. Would it be, ah, creepy to ask for your number? Or email to contact you?"

"It would be tragic if you didn't," Tamara said before she could reply, and Monica gave her a look and made a shooing motion.

"Sorry," she said, patting her pockets. "You have a pen or something."

He dug in his pockets and pulled out a black cell phone. "I can put it in my phone." She shouldn't be surprised he had a phone; from the stories he told he was clearly rich. So she gave him her number.

"I share that with Tamara. So, you know, be warned." 

"It will give her an opportunity to interrogate me on my intentions," he said, with that easy smile of his. "I'll call you."

She thought he actually might. It was too bad she felt like they had an audience, she kind of wanted to kiss him. "I had a nice night."

"So did I." He bent in a little bow. "It was a pleasure to meet you, Monica Lindstrom."

This guy could not be for real. American boys needed to be sent to charm school in Kenya. "I hope I talk to you soon."

He nodded, gave Tamara a little salute, and strolled off, presumably in the direction of his dorm.

Tamara pounced on her as soon as he was out of earshot. "Oh, my _God_."

Monica laughed. "Yeah."

"We're walking back home and you are going to tell me _everything_."

"We just talked. There are no sordid details."

"You talked for almost five hours."

"It was a really good conversation." She bumped Tamara's shoulder. "Sorry for kinda ditching you."

She waved a hand. "It's cool. I really did see someone from my Stats class. And a couple of non-creepy relatively nice smelling guys hit on me. I'd call it a success."

"So we have both had a victorious evening, then." She threaded her arm through Tamara's. "Are you hungry?"

"Starving. Think anything is open?"

She'd always heard about all night eateries and diners from friends who's gone to college before her, but apparently Palo Alto didn't do that sort of thing. The only place open was that fast food restaurant that gave a bunch of people e.Coli a couple of years ago.

Instead, they dumped all of their laundry change into the vending machine, and had a snack feast in their room.

"To a successful first week of college," Tamara said, leaning over to tap her soda can against Monica's.

"I hope it stays this awesome."

Tamara watched her, sipping her drink. "Think he'll call?"

She sighed. "Maybe? I hope so? He's clearly like, way, way out of my league."

"Nah. He's hot and smart. You're hot and smart."

"I'll give you the smart, but I think the hot is an exaggeration. He's also rich, which I _really_ am not."

Tamara made a face at her but didn't press. "He seemed totally interested, though. All the body language. And did he bow to you?"

"He kissed my hand, too. I don't know how he pulled that off. It should have been super cheesy, but somehow it wasn't."

"Are you sure T'Challa isn't Kenyan for Prince Charming?"

She laughed. "I don't think this is quite that much a fairy tale."

He called Sunday evening. Tamara answered and did a little dance when she handed the phone over. She took a deep breath and summoned all the coolness she didn't have. "Hi. Didn't anybody tell you about the three-day rule?"

He sounded honestly perplexed when he replied, "Three day rule?"

"There's some thing where you're not supposed to call for three days, lest the other party think you're too interested."

"Ah. Why would I not want you to know I'm interested?"

"You'd have to ask the dudes in your dorm, I don't understand how boys think."

He chuckled. "Well, I was going to ask if you've like to share a meal with me, but perhaps I now need to wait, what, five days? Six?"

She laughed, too. "I don't think it multiplies. And I would love to have dinner with you." She could see Tamara doing the dance again.

"I have a late class Monday but perhaps Tuesday?"

"Tuesday it is." She had a Wednesday morning class, but who cared. She could skip it. She had no idea what possessed her to then say, "Take me somewhere I can wear heels."

She could _hear_ the grin in his voice. "Yes, ma'am."

They made arrangements, and then hung up the phone. Monica looked over at Tamara in mild panic. "I don't own any heels."

"So shopping?"

She thought of her bank balance and winced. "Don't suppose there's like a Payless around here? Or even a Walmart?"

Tamara tilted her head. "No Walmart that I've heard of. There's a Target, that's like. . . one step up?"

"I need cheap shoes that don't look like cheap shoes."

"Right. Well, there's a Marshalls next to the Target. They have designer cast offs a lot of the time."

"It's worth a shot."

So she and Tamara ditched their Monday classes to take the bus—not the Stanford shuttle but like a genuine bus—up to the relevant strip mall. She got shoes on clearance and a dress she was pretty sure was _way_ too short, but Tamara talked her into it.

The look on his face was kind of worth it, though.

He cleared his throat multiple times, then held out the pink rose he was holding. "My roommate told me it was old-fashioned."

"Your roommate is an asshole." Because she was touched, because of the way he was looking at her, and because she had clearly lost her mind, she took a step forward, stood up on her toes and kissed him.

He startled a little, clearly surprised. Then he flattened a hand on the small of her back and tilted his head, kissing her back. It really was supposed to be just a quick peck, but somehow it didn't stay that way. She lifted her arms and twined them around his neck. She felt as much as heard him sigh and they swayed together a moment, before he lifted his head. "Hello there," he rumbled.

Oh, holy hell, was she in trouble. "Hi," she whispered back.

He studied her face a moment, then stepped back, keeping his hand on her back. "Shall we?"

"I thought you'd never ask."

He had a car—because of course he did. A Mercedes convertible with butter-soft leather seats. She really wanted to ask him if he was as very rich as he seemed to be, but that question was rude. Rich people thought asking that question was rude. 

"You look lovely, by the way," he said as they pulled out of the lot. "I don't think I said it, earlier."

"You didn't need to." Hearing it warmed her all the same.

He glanced over at her. "I think I do."

She smoothed her skirt a little. "Well. Thank you."

"And the heels are well worth the wait." He took his eyes off the road long enough for a trip down her legs that she could almost feel. Indeed, apparently they were.

Dinner was at a restaurant so nice it had white table cloths and a waiter who came and brushed the crumbs away. It was the nicest place she'd ever been in by an order of magnitude. She was clearly out of her depth on several levels at this point, but he was charming and funny and the food was amazing.

Though it was the small spates of imperfection that endeared her the most. Like at the end of the meal he pulled a small PDA out of his pocket and poked at it, muttering under his breath, "There was something in my notes about tipping."

"Fifteen percent," she offered. "Twenty if you thought the service was awesome. It's an American thing."

He actually rolled his eyes, putting the PDA away to pull out his wallet. "Americans like to complicate things."

"We like to ensure our serving class is free from dignity. Why pay them their actual wage when you can make their income dependent on their ability to smile at some jerk's racist and/or sexist jokes?" Monica had done a summer working at a local diner. The experience had left a mark, that was for sure.

For a moment he looked startled at her vehemence. Then he smiled that charming smile of his. "I thought the service was excellent, didn't you? Perhaps 25%?"

She tapped the table. "At the very least."

She didn't see what he finally wrote on the receipt, muttering about math all the while. For all she knew he doubled the whole tab. He took her arm as they left the restaurant. "Now then. Back home? Or shall we find other entertainments?"

"There is an amazing bookstore housed in an old theatre down the street. If you wanted to wander."

"That sounds like an excellent way to pass the time."

It was both excellent and a terrible idea. They were only halfway through the massive bookstore when her feet began to remind her, loudly, that she was wearing shoes that had cost $19.99.

They were in the coffee table books section, trying to find the one with the weirdest topic. "Art made from trash," he said thoughtfully. "I suppose it's a form of recycling?"

"All art is recycling in some format or other." She tried to discretely shift her weight onto her heels, which hurt less than the balls of her feet. She shouldn't have had dessert.

He glanced over at her and whatever he'd been about to say died on his lips. His brow furrowed instead. "Are you all right?"

Gingerly she stood normally. "What? I'm fine."

"You're grimacing."

She made herself smile. Her toes were numb. It was fine. "A lady doesn't grimace."

He looked at her skeptically a moment, then set the book he'd been looking at back on the shelf. "What section next?"

She backed up to look at the signs, and unfortunately limped while she was doing so. She could feel him looking at her, and sighed, mourning the loss of her illusion. "I'm suffering for fashion."

Twisting a little, he bent to examine her feet. "I see. Perhaps it's time to call it a night?"

With another disappointed sigh, she said, "Probably."

"Next time we go out, we shall plan ahead and wear sneakers."

She held out her hand for him, hoping to use him as a crutch. "Sneakers are not sexy."

He took her hand, then slid an arm around her waist. "I assure you, there is plenty to look at other than your shoes."

That made her smile, and she put her arms around his neck. "I think I believe you."

After flashing that devastating grin of his he dipped his head and kissed her again, right there in the middle of the book store. They kissed until some old woman behind them cleared her throat loudly and said, "Do you mind?"

T'Challa glanced back at her, gaze sweeping her dismissively. "No," he said. "I didn't mind at all. It was quite pleasant, thank you for asking." He grinned and tucked Monica's arm through his, walking towards the exit.

"That was beautiful," she told him as they got to the sidewalk. She stopped to take her shoes off. Whatever was one the pavement could not possibly hurt less.

"My father would tell me the chivalrous thing to do would be to carry you," he said mildly. "But I wouldn't want to embarrass you."

She laughed. "No, I can walk. But I'll take a rain check on that." He did hold the car door open for her. "I had a really nice time," She said as they drove back to campus.

"So did I. Thank you for coming out with me."

"Tamara is probably waiting up like a mother hen." It was factually true, and she also said it to forestall any sort of invitation back to his room. Because she'd probably say yes.

"Ah, yes. I would hate to incur her wrath." He gave her a grin. "I'll escort you to your door, then."

"Parking is a huge pain, I don't mind being dropped off." The car was a stick, and he had his hand on the gearshift, and she reached to wrap her fingers around his wrist. It felt a little possessive. She didn't know if it was too early for that, but she didn't care. "We gonna do this again?"

"Of course." He sounded honestly surprised she'd asked. "Whenever you like."

"I am going to need a little patience. I will probably be moving. . .slower than someone like yourself might be used to."

"I think you might be imagine a far longer string of girlfriends than I actually have," he said with a self-depreciating smile. "But take all the time you want. I enjoy your company. Just as it is."

He pulled into the drop off zone in front of her building, and turned his hand around in hers once it was parked. "Good," she said. "Call me?"

"Yes. And I'm afraid I won't wait three days to do it."

"Good," she said again with a grin. He gave her hand a tug and they met in the middle to kiss. It took off like the others had, and it was all she could do not to climb over the center console. She felt him grope the dashboard until he hit the button that put the car's top up, giving them a little privacy.

His hands then cupped her face, tilting her to the right angle. The kiss deepened, sending shivers through her and making her poor abused toes tingle. She had no idea how long they kissed like that. Long enough their hands started wandering. Long enough she wanted to move the car to somewhere with more privacy.

Long enough campus security knocked on the window of the car.

T'Challa looked sheepish as he released her. "I'll call you tomorrow," he said softly.

"I might just sit by the phone all day," she told him, and then she got out of the car.

Upstairs, Tamara was doing homework, books sprawled out on her bed. Monica closed the door and leaned against it. "Hi. I have a problem."

She looked up swiftly. "Why, what happened?"

"Oh, nothing bad. Well, shoes died." She looked down at her bare feet. "I left them in his car."

Tamara smirked. "We'll figure out a foot soak next time." She reshuffled her papers and sat up. "So what's the problem?"

"My parents are super religious. Like, super. And they have beat it into my head that I need to save my self for marriage. I'll be impressed if I manage to save myself for Halloween."

After a pause in which Tamara blinked at her in confusion and surprise, she tossed her head back and laughed. "Oh, my God."

"It was a really good date."

"Well, I'm very happy for you. May I suggest a trip to Planned Parenthood this weekend? If you think you can hang in that long."

"That's. . . not the worst idea I've ever heard." She giggled. "This has been a really crazy couple of days."

"Seriously. Either you need to brace for disappointment or you're gonna win the lottery before the semester is up."


	3. Chapter 3

The top of T'Challa's father's list was always full of the usual prohibitions. Don't drink, don't take drugs, don't get arrested. He hoped traffic stops didn't count because he got pulled over with a surprising regularity. Jay called this Driving While Black, made worse by the expensiveness of his car, and told him to get used to it. He seriously considered begging his father for diplomatic plates.

Several lines down the list was an order not to form attachments with local women. Jay found this particularly hilarious, claiming it was written like he was a soldier in a foreign invasion. 

"See, if it were me, I would write him back and ask follow up questions. Can I bang girls if I don't get attached? Can I form attachments to non-local women like exchange students? Does banning women mean men are acceptable?"

Jay was planning on going to law school.

"Probably, no, and I hope that's not your sad attempt at gold-digging."

"No. Though I would seriously consider doing a dude for that kind of money."

It had been a futile warning on his father's part. He was two months into the school year, and very, very much attached.

He could not, even if his father had been less draconian in his emails, explain Monica to him. She was charming and funny. Always surprised him. She managed to be his guide in the ins and outs of American culture without ever making him feel silly and foreign. He chalked that up the her feelings of being an outsider while growing up.

His only consolation, were he to find one, was that her parents were entirely ignorant of him, as well. He wondered, sometimes, if she knew he was a prince, if that might change their hypothetical opinion of him. It wasn't worth asking her, though.

"So I was thinking," she started, in that voice that sometimes meant trouble. They were camped out at table in the cafe of one of the Engineering buildings. Her class load was heavier so they often ended up over here.

He looked up from the essay notes he was scribbling. "I imagine you think daily."

"What are you doing for Thanksgiving?"

"Asking you what it is."

"It's the holiday where Americans eat turkey and watch football. Also those three days we have off at the end of the month."

"Ah. I had planned to stay around campus, I suppose. It's not worth flying home for so short a time."

"My mother is insisting I come home. I was wondering if you wanted to come with me."

He blinked. "I was under the impression they didn't know you were dating me?"

"They don't. But I think as long as we don't tell them you're not Christian, and we don't tell them you've seen my tits, I think they'll like you. Justin will love you. And I could really use some backup."

He tilted his head. "So we'll be 'just friends'?" He made air quotes with his fingers.

"No. But we have to pretend our relationship is several levels more chaste than it's current level of Basic Cable. We're talking broadcast TV. Afternoon broadcast TV."

He stole one of her crackers. She wanted to take her time figuring out sex, and he was fine with that. Even if Jay thought he was nuts. "Halloween night, in the car, was definitely HBO." They also had a privacy problem.

She blushed a little and it was only because he knew her so well he could tell. "Yes, well. None of that in front of Mom and Dad."

"Or within a hundred yards of earshot." She was fun to tease.

"Yes. Hugs are probably fine. Maybe a kiss on the cheek."

"And will I be sleeping on a fold out in Justin's room? Or perhaps a couch with your father's highly trained German Shepherd staring at me?"

She laughed. "There's a pull-out couch in the rec room in the basement. You'll probably sleep there. We used to have sleepovers down there when I was a kid. So is that a yes?"

"Of course. I'd be happy to come along."

She leaned over the table to kiss him.

His father would probably have a heart attack when he learned T'Challa had left the state, but he didn't entirely care. It was an adventure. The flight from San Francisco to Minneapolis was the first time he'd flown on a commercial airplane. He'd bought them first class seats, something he found still significantly inferior to his father's planes, and Monica thought was nearly magical. Their lives were very different.

Meeting her family only cast that into sharper relief.

They all smiled at him once they'd finished hugging and greeting Monica. He told himself it was his imagination that the expressions were forced. He held a hand out to her father. "T'Challa, sir. It is an honor to meet you." Tamara had told him before they left that his accent covered all manner of sins.

And then he knew the expressions had been forced, because they melted into suddenly genuine smiles. They wanted to know where he was from and how he ended up at Stanford. "You didn't tell me he was from Africa!" her mother exclaimed, and Monica sighed and rubbed her forehead.

It made more sense when they got to the house—after two hours crammed into the back of a minivan that was the oldest, rattiest vehicle he'd ever been in. Her parents were really into African things. There was art and artifacts all over the house, a quilt made of Kente cloth draped over the back of the couch, ceremonial masks over the mantle. 

It was the masks that caught his attention, and when her mother went off to get them snacks he leaned over and whispered, "You know those are from two tribes that have been industriously murdering each other for half a century or so."

Monica snorted a laugh and tried to hide it with a cough. "Don't tell Mom, it'll break her heart."

The basement where he'd be sleeping smelled a little musty, and the pull-out was so lumpy he quickly decided sleeping on the couch would be better. Her parents went to bed astonishingly early, and seemed to expect everyone else to do the same, despite he and Monica being on West Coast time. She gave him a forlorn wave from the top of the basement stairs before she went to bed.

It was a long night.

The morning involved going to church—he'd been given a crash course in Christianity on the plane—and then preparing a large ceremonial meal. Somehow he got stuck in the living room watching football with her father, brother, and a growing group of relatives. Justin looked as bored as he was. The extended family members all asked him innocent but somehow vaguely racist questions. He didn't see a whole lot of Monica, as the family segregated rather rigidly by gender.

Before they could eat there was a long prayer. A very long, rambling prayer. He'd always thought Wakandan prayers were too long, but at least they were talking to multiple gods and possibly ones ancestors as well. This one god must be bored to tears.

Finally they intoned Amen and it was time to eat. The turkey - which Monica's mother had fussed over all day - was dry and tasted of nothing but salt. The gravy that covered it was far better and it was a relief to see it was acceptable to drown the bird in it. Mashed potatoes were creamy and rich, but the rolls were hard as rock and the vegetables and fruit seemed entirely out of cans. He tried everything and took a second helping of the potatoes, which seemed to earn him her mother's good will.

One of her aunts gushed that it must be so nice for him to be in the States where there was plenty of food. It was only Monica's nails digging into his thigh that kept him from rattling off hunger and poverty statistics. Instead he smiled politely and agreed.

There was more football, unbelievably, after dinner. He tried to volunteer to help with the clean up, if only to get an actual five minutes with his girlfriend, but was waved away. 

Justin kept him company on the couch. "California clearly isn't far enough. I'm going to college in Bangalore."

"I went to college ten thousand miles from home," T'Challa said. "I am not going to talk you out of it."

He sighed. "They mean well."

"It's clear they love you and your sister," he agreed. "It's hard, I think, to let go. My father is still trying to parent me. Ten thousand miles away."

"They have a certain way they want things. They've planned out our lives and want them to go that way. They've been fretting ever since Monica called about The Boyfriend. Lucky for you, their Africa fetish is stronger than their Jesus paranoia."

"Had she only told me. I could have had some ceremonial robes sent to me. Arrived in style."

"I would have paid real money to see that."

They were interrupted by parting relatives, and the Monica came out into the living room for a few minutes. She leaned her head on his shoulder for a moment, looking tired. "You hanging in there?" she asked him.

"I am," he assured her. "Are you?"

"One more day and a wakeup," she said in response, and then her mother called her from the kitchen. "Off to polish the silver or whatever she just remembered."

"Good luck. Just think of first class seats and smile."

She kissed his cheek as she got up.

Her father fell asleep in his chair—turkey coma—and 'lights out' came shortly after her mother herded him to bed. Her family was really serious about their routines.

Half an hour into his attempt to sleep on a lumpy couch at an appallingly early hour, the door at the top of the basement stairs creaked open. He sat up, a little concerned he was about to be threatened by Mr. Lindstrom. Though he had seemed rather groggy to be defending his daughter's hypothetical honor. He breathed a sigh of relief when Monica came around the wall at the foot of the staircase. "Hey."

"Hello," he replied, tucking his legs up. "Isn't this against protocol?"

She sat on the other end of the couch, pulling his blanket over her legs. "Probably. I just missed you."

He touched her leg with his toes. "How are you, really?"

"I'm basking in my parents' praise. I have reached the apex of my status as a trophy."

"I knew you were only with me for my accent," he said solemnly.

That made her smile, then she sighed. "It's probably unkind. But their entire demeanor changed when they heard your accent. I can't be the only one who noticed that." She squinted into the darkness. "They always made a big deal of wanting me to know about my heritage."

"I did notice," he said gently. "And it's hard to ignore their decor." He shifted and touched her hand. "Your brother and I talked a little, earlier. He said they mean well and I think it's true. They just. . . don't know what they think they know."

"They're just all about me being from some exotic place overseas, and are like willfully obtuse about the fact that we are not _in_ Ethiopia. We live in the US. They desperately don't want me to be African-American. Yet, I am." 

He inclined his head, stroking her hand with his fingertips. "You are eighteen and spend the majority of the year away from them. You may define yourself however you like. And, perhaps, wear a mask when you're with them. To keep peace."

"I have to wear a mask with everyone." She turned her hand over to tangle their fingers. "Everyone but you."

Guilt stabbed him, but he ignored it. This was about her, not him. "I am honored to be the one who sees you."

She watched him a long moment, then crawled across the couch to kiss him. Surprised, it took him a moment to respond, cupping the back of her head in one hand. She moved closer while they kissed, shifting so she could straddle his lap.

Stifling a groan, he cupped her waist, fingers flexing on her. He slipped a hand under her shirt, stroking skin. She lifted her arms, encouragement to take it off. When he hesitated, she said, "They'd sleep through a cannon blast."

He hiked a brow. "Your instructions were very specific."

"I don't care. The FCC can fine us." She kissed him again. "People can write angry letters."

"Mmm, what if they cancel their service?" he asked, tugging her shirt up and off. 

She didn't have a bra on under it, which was delightful. "Some might. But I suspect most will be happy with their free porn."

A laugh rumbled through his chest and he ducked his head, kissing the soft skin of her breast. She sighed and settled closer, reaching her hand beneath the t-shirt he now regretted choosing to sleep in. She bent her head and a waterfall of her braids slid off her shoulder and onto his. Wakandan women tended to wear their hair very short if not shaved, so the constant evolution of Monica's elaborate hairstyles fascinated him. The tiny braids draped halfway down her back, and had taken an entire day to put in. He loved he could wrap them around his hand.

He did so now, weaving a few through his fingers. Nuzzling at her skin, he glanced up at her. "You're so beautiful."

"When you say that, I believe you."

He kissed her mouth, tender and slow. He liked to think he was good for her, generally. Tried to support her without holding her too tightly. Sometimes he worried that she would realize exactly how wonderful she was and decide she wanted to try out her wings. But for now, he was happy being the only person who saw how perfect she was.

Breaking the kiss, he let his mouth trail down her throat, nuzzling her skin until he could take her nipple into his mouth. She gasped. She was not at all quiet. Every time they fooled around in his dorm room, he heard about it from the guys in the room next door. He hoped she was right about her family being heavy sleepers.

He teased her, sucking hard a moment before leaning back to blow on her wet skin. It made the nipple tighten and he pressed a light kiss to it before moving to the other. She leaned back, making him stop so she could pull his shirt over his head. "I locked the door," she told him. "I want naked."

They had not gone fully naked before. He'd guessed that was pretty far down the line, especially here. Briefly, he wondered if he should try to slow her down, if she might regret this when they were back at school away from the emotional turmoil of her parents. But she was clear eyed and sober and there was a lot that could be done between naked and sex. So he gave her a solemn nod and kissed her again, sliding his hand into her waistband to cup the bare skin of her ass. 

She let the kiss go on a minute, grinding against him in a way that made it hard to think about anything at all. Then she hopped up and shimmied out of her pajama pants. There was nothing under them.

The air left his lungs abruptly and it took him a moment to remember how to breathe. She was watching him a little shyly, then he leaned forward and kissed her belly, running light fingers up her bare thigh. She shuddered, and then whispered, "I'm an adult. I'm my own person. I don't want their rules."

He stroked her leg again, but leaned back so he could see her face. "You're sure?"

"T, sometimes you jump into the deep end of the fucking pool." She smirked. "Pun unintended but apt."

He chuckled. "I would not be a gentleman if I did not ask."

"I know." She stroked his shoulders. "I just. . . I really want you. I don't want to wait anymore."

That was rather definitive. "As you wish." He kissed her stomach again, then stood to slid his sweats off. He paused with his thumbs in the waist. "I don't have condoms."

She looked up at him. "So I guess it's handy I'm on the Pill."

"That is extremely handy." With the last of his worries assuaged he shoved his sweats off, stepping out of them. 

Her eyes followed the movement, and then she murmured, "I think my nerves are making it look bigger than usual."

With effort, he managed not to grin. "Probably." Hooking a finger under her chin, he tipped her head up and kissed her again. "You can change your mind whenever you want."

She made an amused hum against his mouth, and wrapped her arms around his neck. Her entire body pressed against him, bare skin to bare skin. He let his hands wander, stroking her lightly. Her skin was soft and supple and her curves absolutely intoxicating. He pressed a little harder, letting the kiss deepen. Her hands wandered, too, and the moment stretched while they just kissed and touched each other. Eventually he lifted her a little and staggered back to the couch.

He sat with her in his lap and let the kissing stretch. Now, however, he grew a bit more deliberate, cupping and shaping her breast with his hand and teasing her nipple until it was peaked. When she had started to squirm a bit at the attention, he let his hand slide between them, lightly stroking the hair at the juncture of her thighs.

She was very wet. He remembered the first time he'd touched her, she'd soaked his hand and cried in surprise when she came. Giving someone their first orgasm was a unique experience. Just like that night, she reached down to grab his wrist to hold his hand to her. "Please," she whispered.

Pressing a kiss to her shoulder, he touched her more firmly, sliding his fingers between her folds to swirl around her clit. She shuddered and he caught her mouth with his, hoping to swallow her cries. She began to rock against his hand, her breathing getting sharper and harsher. Then she moaned a little and tugged at his hand. "Can we. . .?"

"Like this?" he asked, dragging damp fingers along her thigh.

She reached between them, sliding her hand over his cock. "This."

It was probably good if she drove. She could control speed and he just had to keep himself in check. He curled his hand over he hip and tugged her gently, changing her angle. Then he nudged himself to the entrance of her body. "Slowly," he warned her.

She nodded, looking down to watch herself. She shifted and wiggled and rolled her hips as she sank down very slowly. It made it more comfortable for her, and he just about saw stars it felt so good. He thought of the unsexiest things he could. The toothless elder who oversaw his coming of age ceremony. The way the dorm bathroom smelled after the shower rush. Anything to keep control long enough for her to ease down.

Finally, she was sitting on his thighs, his cock enveloped by her slick heat. She was panting and he rubbed her hip in what he hoped was a comforting way. "All right?" he whispered.

"Yeah," she breathed, desperation and lust in her voice. "I thought it would hurt, but it. . ." she rocked her hips slowly and sucked in a breath, eyelids fluttering. "Please touch me."

Didn't have to ask him twice. He kissed her breast and shifted his hand, finding her clit again and stroking it. "Like this?"

"Yes, yes." She rocked again, moving a little faster, until she found a rhythm. He could see her lose herself in it, taking what she needed, the sounds she was making getting louder and louder. He put his hand over her mouth and she bit his skin. 

Her hips grew frantic and erratic and he felt her start to squeeze around him. It was the last straw and his control snapped. He lifted up into her a few times before joining her, pleasure sweeping through him.

She melted, collapsing against him and making quiet little whimpers has she exhaled. He held her tightly, rubbing her back, chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath.

"Oh," she murmured. "I want to do that every day."

He laughed a little breathlessly. "I will do everything in my power to make that happen."

"On the weekends we should find somewhere to lock ourselves in. Hide and mess around all day."

"There are hotels. If we don't want our roommates to hate us."

"You are very rich. We should make use of that. Go someplace I can scream if I want to."

"Agreed."

She kissed his shoulder, and whispered. "This was perfect. Thank you."

"Mmm." He rocked her a little. "I assure you, it was mutual."

"This is the best Thanksgiving I've ever had."

"Me too."

She laughed. "This is your only Thanksgiving."

"That's why it's so easy to quantify."


	4. Chapter 4

The flight home was relaxing—she could get used to this first class thing—and she got back early enough that they had her room to themselves for a bit, something they made great use of.

He trailed his fingers over her skin as they lay in bed afterwards. "You survived three whole days with your family. How does it feel?"

"It would have been unbearable alone. Thank you for coming with me." She bent her head to kiss his chest, wondering idly if they had time to go again. "I can't get enough of you." 

He chuckled and tugged her so she sprawled across his chest. "I've created a monster."

"Mmm." She straddled him. "But it's a fun monster."

There was a knock on the door, and from the other side Tamara called, "I know the scrunchy is on, but I'm blocking the hall with suitcases."

Monica groaned. "Give me a minute," she called back.

"She's a very polite roommate," T'Challa commented.

"We look after each other," she said, getting up and grabbing her bathrobe. "Put some pants on."

"Yes, dear." He sat up and leaned over the edge of the bed, grabbing his pants. He yanked them on and had his shirt halfway by the time she opened the door.

"Thanks," Tamara said, dragging in two suitcases. "Hey, T. Aw, I missed the show."

"You snooze, you lose," Monica told her, before turning back to T'Challa. "She's going to need to complain about her family for a bit, can I call you later?"

"Of course." He kissed her gently, slipping his feet into loafers. "Goodnight. Welcome home, Tamara."

She wiggled her fingers at him as he left, then looked at Monica. "Damn."

"He only gets better looking the more I look at him," she replied. 

Tamara heaved one of the suitcases on her bed and unzipped it. "Open the window, it smells like sex in here."

"That is an accurate description of what occurred."

She froze and turned to look at her. "Oh _really_?"

There was nothing she could do about the stupid grin she was certain was on her face. "Really."

Tamara squealed and ran over to hug her. "Congratulations."

"Oh, trust me, it was its own reward."

"Do I get details? Or at least a broad overview. Perhaps a Cliffnotes?"

She came over to help Tamara unpack. "The first time was in the basement at my parents' house. It had been an aggravating day and I snuck downstairs, and we ended up. . ." She made a gesture with her hand. "It was amazing. Didn't even hurt."

"Lucky. Mine hurt like a bitch."

"I really think I'm in love with this guy," she said with a sigh.

Tamara grinned and gave her a little sock in the arm. "Good for you."

The next couple weeks were consumed by the semester winding down and the intensity of finals. The next thing she knew, everyone was packing up to go home for winter break. It seemed rather bleak and unbearable.

"You could pack me in your suitcase," she told T'Challa while she watched him pack.

"Already tried that," Jay said from halfway inside their closet. "It's 68 in Nairobi right now. It's 15 in Chicago."

"It's 17 in Minnesota," she replied, and he offered his fist for a solidarity bump.

T'Challa rolled oner of his t-shirts and tucked it in the suitcase. "You know, for someone who still thinks in Celsius your weather reports are either confusing or terrifying."

"Don't start with your fake foreign measurements again," Jay replied, getting an eye roll.

"If it makes you feel any better, my father wants to climb Kilimanjaro as a bonding activity on my break. It's pretty cold at the top, I hear."

"I'll think of you while in my nicely heated house," Monica told him.

"I'll send you a bottle of snow," he retorted, then grinned at her. "Shall I send a mask for your mother's sewing room wall?"

She laughed. "She'd probably love that."

"I do have something for you. Call it a Christmas gift." He turned and rummaged in his desk.

"We already exchanged Christmas gifts." He'd gotten her a necklace. Tamara had to help him because he'd never bought a Christmas present before.

"Boxing Day, then." She didn't know what Boxing Day was, but then he turned and held out a cell phone.

Her jaw dropped and she reached out automatically to take it. "T, I can't- What?"

"Your parents are not going to let you call Africa. It's Extra Long Distance. You can call me, I can call you without having to make small talk with your Dad. We can talk at the weird hours our timezones will require. I don't want to go a month without hearing your voice."

"Smooth," Jay said appreciatively from behind her. Their relationship often had a greek chorus.

Ignoring the audience, she jumped up and hugged him, kissing all over his face. "This is awesome. Thank you. I will call you all the time."

They did, in fact, call all the time. It tended to be early in the morning for him, and late at night for her, because privacy was hard to come by for her. She'd wait for her family to go to sleep, then sneak down into the rec room, curl up on the couch they'd made love on, and talk to him until the battery died. 

New Year's Eve, she and Justin had a couple of friends over while their parents went to a New Year's party at church. Someone brought a joint, and they smoked it out on the deck in the snow. 

She didn't have much of a tolerance and ended up so high she could hear colors. Also, for some reason, really turned on. She told the rest of them she didn't feel well, went up to her bedroom and locked the door. Then she called her boyfriend and told him, very graphically, what she would do to him if he were there.

In the morning, after waking up dressed and holding her phone, she pieced her memory together and was mortified. That evening she sent a text instead of a call. It took forever to type on the number pad. _About last night. Intoxication was involved._

_That's a relief. Some of the things you suggested were likely anatomically impossible to do simultaneously._

She cringed and put her pillow over her face for a moment. _I am SO sorry_. Also, how did he type that many letters so quickly?

_Why are you apologizing? I quite enjoyed your fantasies._

_It was really dirty._ She'd remind him what she said, but there was no way she was typing that.

_I will tell you a secret. Men like dirty._

She frowned at her phone, then decided typing on this tiny phone was stupid, and called him. "There are a lot of things men like that still get a woman branded a ho."

There was a pause. "I take it from your tone that's a bad thing?"

Somehow that made her laugh. "Sometimes your foreignness is refreshing."

"Thank you," he said almost primly. "I find your dirty thoughts quite hot and not at all ho-like."

She felt her skin flush—arousal or embarrassment, she didn't know. "Well all right then. Maybe we try some of them when you get back."

"I will book the hotel as soon as I'm Stateside."

She curled up under her blankets. It was snowing again outside. "I know it's late over there and you need to rest up for your mountain climbing."

"Indeed. I'll be out of contact for a couple days."

Monica watched the snow fall, thinking the distance made her feel brave. "Listen, in case you die up there. . ."

"That is highly unlikely."

She cleared her throat. "I wanted to tell you I love you."

There was a long silence. When he spoke she could hear him smile. "I love you, too, Monica."

She sighed happily. "I can't wait to see you again."

When it was time to go back to school, her parents thankfully sent her on a flight alone. T'Challa had gotten in the day before—having not died on Mt. Kilamanjaro—and offered to pick her up from the airport. They kissed indecently at the gate, walked hand in hand through baggage claim, and let their hands wander idly while they waited for her suitcases. She kissed him again after they were loaded into the trunk, and then somehow they ended up in the backseat. The long skirt she'd worn for travel comfort was easily shoved up, and then they were having fast, intense, mostly dressed sex right there in the parking deck.

Afterwards they panted together, foreheads touching. Slowly, he unclenched his hand from her hip. "I missed you, too," he mumbled, kissing her sloppily.

"I love you," she told him, feeling very content. Even if they were risking arrest.

"I love you back," he murmured. "You've grown more beautiful since I last saw you."

She kissed his nose. "I look exactly the same."

"No. Definitely more beautiful. I can tell."

Monica laughed, rubbing his back. Sometimes she really couldn't believe this man was hers. "Did you get a hotel room?"

"As promised. Would you like to disentangle and go see it?"

"And then christen every surface, yes."

He gave her another smacking kiss and sat up, easing out of her before helping her resettle her dress.

That night, curled up in a fancy hotel room with a view of San Francisco, she decided this was the happiest she'd ever been.

*

He should have told her who he was.

There had never been a right time, but if T'Challa was honest there wasn't going to be right time for the "sorry I lied to you" conversation. But he should have told her. Before he went to spend a holiday with her family. Before, or at least after, she'd come to him that night. When she'd told him she loved him. Or literally any time in the three-plus months since. 

Even Jay thought it was bad. Jay who sometimes gave women he slept with a fake name so they couldn't look him up in the directory. 

The mess was one of his own making.

"So I have a crazy idea," she said to him one afternoon in April.

"I love your crazy ideas," he replied, not looking up from his physics book. "Do tell me."

"I haven't broken the news to my parents yet, about my unbeliever status. So they've been nagging me to go on a missionary trip over the summer. I've been mostly ignoring it, but then I thought. . . where are these things? Turns out there's one in eastern Tanzania. Dar Es Salaam is a two hour flight from Nairobi."

The words in front of him blurred. He didn't look up, though, focusing on remembering to breathe. Okay. Now he had to tell her. "Do you want to go on a missionary trip?" he asked instead.

She shrugged. "I'm sure good work will be done. I'll ignore a lot of praying. And I'll get to see you. Mostly the last one."

He could _probably_ think of an excuse to be in Nairobi for a month or two. He shook his head. No. Not really. "I. . . have to tell you something. And I'm a little worried you won't believe me."

She looked at him, eyebrows raised. "Your accent is fake and you're really from Newark?"

"Not quite so far off. But. I am not from Kenya."

She frowned. She'd been teasing but now she looked concerned. "Where _are_ you from?"

He cleared his throat. "Wakanda."

She opened and closed her mouth, then shook her head. "I don't understand. What the hell is going on here? And nobody leaves Wakanda, they shun the world."

His only consolation was that this would not have sounded anymore realistic months ago. "We do not welcome the rest of the world behind our borders. That doesn't mean we don't send our people out to learn about the world. Scientists, scholars." He cleared his throat again. "Royals."

"You're a . . .prince? That's what you're telling me?"

"I know how it must sound." Like he was crazy. Or breaking up with her in the strangest way possible. "But, yes. My father is T'Chaka, king of Wakanda. I'm next in line for the throne."

She stared at him, for what felt like an eternity. Slowly tears formed in her eyes and a pit formed in his stomach. "I couldn't come see you, could I, if I went to Tanzania?"

"No," he said quietly. "You wouldn't be allowed to see me."

She looked down. "You know, the crazy thing is, I believe you. And I think that's _worse_."

"I'm sorry. I should have told you a long time ago. I just. . . I wasn't supposed to tell anyone and by the time it became clear you weren't just anyone. . . it seemed too late."

"So you just continued to lie to me. Logical. I'll give you that." She held up her hands. "I might have been mad. The nookie train might have stopped."

He felt a spike of insult. After all this time, he'd thought he'd proved he loved her for far more than that. "That's not- That had nothing to do with it."

"You lied to me about _who you are_. I'm not crazy to question the validity of everything that came after that." She leapt off the bed and paced across the room to rub her eyes.

"I lied about where I was from. Nothing I told you about _me_ was a lie. Nor were my feelings for you."

"How about the part where your American girlfriend is socially unacceptable? Yeah, I can read between the lines. Seems pretty material." Her voice broke at the end.

He got to his feet and approached her hesitantly. "That has nothing to do with who you are. I was breaking a great many rules just by being with you."

She closed her eyes. "That doesn't make me feel any better. I don't want to be some. . . hidden thing. I thought. . . well, I guess I thought a lot of things. Mostly related to an apparently misplaced level of trust." 

It was his own fault that he really had no defense. He could spin it however he liked - and he was enough of a prince to know how to spin - but he had lied by omission. "I'm sorry, Monica." He touched her back lightly. 

She flinched away. "This is not going to hurt any less later," she said, leaning down to pick up her books.

"Is there anything I can do? Or say?"

Her shoulders slumped. "Take me home and introduce me to the King?"

He hesitated, trying to picture that. "I'm sorry. That's not up to me."

She took a shuddery breath, and tears rolled down her cheeks. "Okay. Well." The took another breath. "Don't lie to the next girl."

He really didn't want to think about any other girls, but he was sure she wouldn't believe that. "This is goodbye, then?"

Her face scrunched up, in grief and misery. She didn't even say anything, but he knew her well enough to know she probably couldn't without crying. He was gripped but the sudden thought this was the last time he was going to see her, and it was hard to breathe.

Swallowing hard, he tried to think of something - anything - to say. If not to fix it, then to not make it worse.

"I'm sure you hate me," he said quietly. "And I will have to live with that. But I am very happy to have met you." He kissed her temple and ran his fingers through her hair, twining her braids around them one more time. "I hope you have a very happy life."

She closed her eyes, and started to cry in earnest. She managed to whispered, "You, too," and then she was gone.

T'Challa sank back onto his bed and closed his eyes, ignoring the hot trail of tear that streaked down his cheek.


	5. Chapter 5

_January, 2001_

"Okay, look. The mourning period has officially eclipsed the length of the relationship." Tamara pointed a shoe at her. "We need to find a man, and get you laid."

Monica spit out the highlighter cap she was chewing on. "I don't have time to get laid."

She appreciated Tamara's intentions. She had, over the last however many months, proved to be the best of best friends. She'd held Monica's hair when she'd cried so hard she threw up. Then held her hair when she got so drunk she threw up. Then went to the drug store at 4AM to get a pregnancy test when Monica became paranoid that was the real cause of the throwing up. (It wasn't). She'd cheered her up and kept her focused so she wouldn't blow her finals and flunk out of school. She had, God bless her, gone over to collect the pile of CDs Monica had left in T'Challa's room. The grapevine told her Tamara had had some sort of shouting match with Jay, but they hadn't really gotten along anyway, so it wasn't a big deal.

Over the summer, when she was alone in Minnesota and inexplicably forced to comfort her own mother about the breakup, she'd slid into a very dark depression. The kind that stretched beyond a broken heart in to something scary. One night, she's said something that had scared Tamara, and two days later she's shown up on the Lindstrom's doorstep insisting with a straight face she'd always wanted to see rural Minnesota. Her parents were too polite to argue.

Tamara pulled her out of the abyss by sheer force of will. They took a meandering road trip back to California and visited every tacky tourist trap they could find on the way. They shared a room again for their sophomore year. Monica chopped off her braids and let her hair grow natural, cranked up her credit load, found some extracurriculars, and kept herself too busy to be sad.

"You need something," Tamara said. "I'm sure there's a party to be found. A bar crawl to join."

"No parties. He could be there. And we're too young for bar crawls."

She pursed her lips and thought about it. "Open mike night at the student union. Hear some angry poetry, get a latte."

Monica looked at her suspiciously. "You're not going to try to get me to read some of mine, are you?"

"Nope, promise." She held up three fingers in a little scout's honor salute. "We'll go, hang out for an hour. Commune with our fellow students. And I won't bug you to go out again for at least a few days."

She'd just pester her until she gave in. "Okay fine. I will consume a latte."

She raised her arms in a victory V and climbed off her bed. "Come on, shoes and jacket. Hup, hup, let's go."

The cafe had a decent coffee house vibe. The usuals were not really Monica's crowd, full of scowling, flannel-draped grunge types and nouveau hippies who smell like pot, patchouli, and BO. But, that also made it the sort of place she and T'Challa never went to, so that was a plus. Half of campus felt off-limits sometimes.

"Nothing says college like white people with dreadlocks," she commented to Tamara as they watched the first girl step up to the mic.

"Just don't inhale too deeply," she responded, stirring her mocha. "And try to enjoy yourself."

The poetry was not bad, though Tamara had been right about it being angry. Everything Monica wrote these days was angry or sad. "I need to get a keyboard," she said.

Tamara's brows went up. "You do?"

"I do. All the melodies I hear in my head are sad. Maybe it's time I made some new ones."

From the look on her face, Monica had a sneaking suspicion this was the outcome Tamara had hoped for. "Well, we're two Stanford students. I'm sure we can find a music store of some sort."

Well, often when Tamara steered her, it was for her own good. So she nodded. "Tomorrow?"

"The expedition will begin."

She ended up spending $300, a figure than meant there was a lot of ramen noodles in her future. The life of a broke college student had done nothing helpful for the ache of her breakup. Mostly because for her freshman year, "broke college student" had only been something she watched happening to other people, thanks to her relationship with someone who had refined tastes and an Amex Black. He'd have bought her the keyboard if she'd wanted one—the lounge of their dorm last year had had a baby grand she preferred—they'd eaten meals that cost that much. He'd bought her shoes that cost more.

"I have an idea," she said to Tamara as they set the keyboard up in the corner of their room.

"Is it a good idea?"

"I never know with you. I was thinking I could sell stuff on ebay."

Her brows arched. "What kind of stuff?"

"The designer stuff. I have two pairs of Manolos and a pair of Jimmy Choos. That Prada sweater I only wore twice." She had Coach bag she could also sell, but she loved it despite the fact that it reminded her of him, so no. "I could even sell the necklace. It's got a bunch of stones in it and it's from Cartier."

"The shoes and the sweater are a good idea. But I think you should hang onto the necklace. Someday you might have somewhere fancy to go and be more concerned with appropriate accessories than bad memories."

"I'd probably get a lot of money for it. . ." It was also the nicest thing anyone had ever given her. Even if it did still hurt to look at it.

"You'll get a lot for the shoes, too." She shrugged. "I'm just saying, jewelry is usually worth hanging onto."

"Do you want me to keep it because you picked it out and are hoping to borrow it someday?"

"I am insulted at your suggestion and will remain in a pique for the rest of the evening."

Monica hopped up and went to her dresser, digging in the bottom of her jewelry box until she found the necklace. It was a bunch of small, differently-shaped stones strung on a delicate gold chain. It really was gorgeous. She turned back and held it out to Tamara.

She stared at her a moment. "You're kidding."

"It's gorgeous. Someone should love it." She shook the necklace. "Take it. You're the best thing that's ever happened to me."

Clearly uncertain, Tamara got up and took it from her, letting the chain spill through her fingers. "Well. . ." She glanced back at Monica, then reached out to pull her into a hug. "If you ever want to borrow it-"

"Open closet. I know. I love stealing your shit."

Tamara gave her a tight little squeeze that had nothing to do with the necklace. "I love you."

"I love you, too."

She got decent money for the stuff she sold, more than enough to cover her keyboard and have a little fun money. She wrote music that wasn't depressing, and even played and sung things for Tamara, who told her she was fantastic, and should sing in public. She said no.

Then one weekend in the spring, a group of girls she and Tamara were friends with got it into their heads to go to one of the frats that was having a karaoke night. "I'm not singing," she told Tamara.

"Well, no one but me knows you can sing. Plus I swear, even good singers sound bad at karaoke. But it's Jen's birthday and she wants to go. We could do a big group thing?"

"I'll turn the song book pages for you."

"I think it's a machine."

The frat was smokey and crowded. She got a drink, and by the time she got back, Tamara had secured their group a spot in the lineup. They were singing Love Shack. Monica found somewhere to stand and watch.

"Abandoning your girls, eh?"

Monica turned to look at the guy standing behind her. He had light brown skin and was ethnically ambiguous, which was interesting to her. Also he was kinda hot. This was the first time in a year something like that had registered on her. That didn't mean she felt like being hit on. "That a pick up line?"

He held up a hand. "Just making conversation."

"I don't like karaoke."

He took a drink of his beer. "Can't sing, huh?"

She didn't know why that offended her. Maybe because her drink was kicking in. "I can sing anything."

His grin was just this side of patronizing. "Sure you can."

She stared him down. "Anything in that catalog."

"Prove it."

"Go pick something and put me on the list. My name's Monica." And she had clearly _completely_ lost her mind.

"You got it, sweetheart." He still had that shit eating grin on when he went over to the machine and flipped through the book. 

She finished her drink, watching a terrible, terrible rendition of a Bon Jovi song, when the guy returned. The grin was now whatever was beyond shit eating. "You'd think, after so many horrible renditions, they would stop putting Whitney Houston songs in karaoke catalogs. But I, or rather you, are in luck. Is there someone you will always love?"

It took a disorienting moment to understand what he meant. For a second she thought he somehow knew her, knew about her broken heart. But no. He'd just picked _I Will Always Love You_ because nobody could sing it. She crossed her arms over her chest. "You really go for the throat, don't you?"

"You said anything," he replied, clearly proud of himself. "I wasn't going to give you a softball."

Instead he gave her something designed to make everyone laugh at her. And possibly cry on stage, but he didn't know that part. "There are things between a softball and a bullet, you know."

He shrugged. "Tell you what. I'll let you chicken out if you'll give me your number."

"Yeah? What do I get if I sing it?"

That seemed to stump him a moment. "My number?"

She raised her eyebrows at him. "You have until my turn to think of something better."

"Oh, the guy running the machine's my little bro. You're next."

" _What?_ "

"Monica?" someone called from up front.

She gave him a glare and he shrugged. "I'll clap really loud," he assured her.

The guy at the machine called her name again and she had no choice but to start making her way up. Tamara caught her eye from the crowd and mouthed, _What the hell?_

She took a detour over to her friend. "Long story. Pride goeth before the fall." She took Tamara's drink out of her hand and chugged it. "Come get me with a hook if I start to cry."

"Wing woman mode engaged. Any one I need to beat the snot out of for putting you up to it?"

"We'll see how it goes." The guy called her name again and she turned and marched to the mic.

She had one saving grace. This particular song was on her favorite Breakup Mix Tape (Tamara had made her several, for different emotions). She listened to it so often she had the words memorized. Which meant she could just close her eyes and sing.

Singing was as easy as breathing. As talking. Her mother told her she used to sing to herself in her native language when she first came home. It was a stable part of her life, even when other people tried to shush her or tell her she was too loud. Now she didn't worry about it. Didn't care if she was loud.

It took her a moment to realize that the dull roar of conversation in the room had dimmed. She opened her eyes, and seemingly every eye was on her. The craziest thing was, that didn't scare her. Didn't make her feel shy. She had an entire year's worth of simmering sadness to dump into this song. To pour it out and excise it from her body. She felt clean. She felt powerful. She felt like a new version of herself. A better one.

She didn't miss a single note.

When the last one had wound down and faded there was a heartbeat of silence. And then applause, loud and enthusiastic, peppered with whistles and shouts.

She had a frat house full of drunk people clapping for a slow, sappy love song. That had to be some sort of record. She sketched a little bow, and hopped off the stage. She headed for Tamara, who had her hands over her mouth.

"Oh, my God, where have you been _hiding_ that?"

Monica giggled, and Tamara hugged her fiercely. "Want me to come sing Love Shack with you?"

"Hell, no. We gotta get ourselves a proper duet. I Got You Babe, minimum."

"No. No Cher."

"Well, the line was long. There's still like 4 people ahead of us. How did you cut?"

"The same way we are going to cut. Change the song if you want, we're going as soon as this dude is done butchering Springsteen." She felt, quite literally, like she'd been electrified. Like she'd been plugged into the sun.

"You are gonna blow me out of the water, you know that, right?"

"When I'm famous you can be my manager," she replied, and Tamara laughed. She turned around and located the guy who'd dared her in the crowd. His mouth was still open as she walked over. "I should have put a hundred bucks on that," she said. "I bet you'd have taken the action."

His mouth opened and closed a couple times, then he shook himself. "Yes. Yes. I would." He dug in his pocket and pulled out a wallet. He rummaged a moment and pulled out some twenties. "Sixty's the best I can do." His grin was now more self-depreciating than shit-eating. "When you're famous, remember who paid your first gig."

She laughed, and turned to point at the guy running the karaoke machine. "I want to sing again. Go bump my friends and I to the front."

"Yes ma'am," he said with a little salute.

She returned to Tamara, who had three of their friends and the catalog. "Lady Marmalade," Tamara announced.

Monica coughed. "Well, that will probably get somebody laid."

"I believe that was the goal, yes. It _is_ Jen's birthday. And it will let you show off and the rest of us sing to our abilities."

"Fair enough." She was feeling triumphant. Why not sing a song about sex?

"Wouldn't kill you to get laid," Tamara commented.

"I will take that under advisement."

The guy on stage stopped murdering the Boss and the guy at the machine called for them. She and her girls tromped up on stage and the crowd howled when they saw her. 

They sang, they danced, they brought the house down.

Monica was quite literally bouncing when she hopped off the stage. She couldn't remember the last time she felt this good. Her new friend was at the foot of the stage now. "You got a name?" she asked him.

"Shawn," he said. "Nice to meet you."

She grinned. "Don't suppose you live here?"

"I am a proud Sigma Nu," he told her.

"Good," she said. "Come on, then." She turned and walked through the crowd, just assuming he'd follow. People moved out of her way. He was a little to full of himself for her tastes. But he was hot, and she wasn't interested in a boyfriend. "I have a dry spell to break."

And then she had bigger things to do.


	6. Chapter 6

_November, 2001_

American Football had really never been T'Challa's thing, but if you went to Stanford, you had to care about the Big Game. He could appreciate the value of a local rivalry, particularly one going on as long as the one with Cal. 

Besides, he could get really good tickets, which made Jay and his other collected friends happy. The group event cheered him up at a time of year that he was felling particularly nostalgic. Thanksgiving made him think of Monica.

Who, as it turned out, was singing the national anthem at this damn football game.

He recognized her voice as soon as he heard it, despite her never having sung for him. It took the rest of them a bit longer.

"Is that-?" Jay said.

"It is."

"Did you know she-?"

"I suspected." He looked down at the field and smiled. "But this is the first time I've heard it."

The American national anthem was a hard song to sing. Enough jokes were made about that even he had heard them. Pop stars and professional singers had missed notes at baseball games. Her rendition sounded perfect. She got a rather boisterous round of applause when she was done. The smile on her face made his heart ache. Her hair was shorter, a small cloud of curls around her head worn natural, it made her look gorgeous. More gorgeous than he remembered.

She sketched a theatrical bow and dashed off the field. Beside him, Jay said. "You gonna mope all day now?"

"At least till halftime."

"You could go talk to her." He'd said this at least a hundred times in the last 18 months.

"I am even more certain that she wants nothing to do with me." Maybe if he thought she was still mourning, still pining as badly as he was. But clearly she had found her footing and her passion. He would be an even greater ass than he had been to disrupt that.

"Polite conversation never hurt nobody." Jay said.

"I beg to differ." He pointed at the field. "You're missing sport."

"I'm missing pre-sport festivities to heckle you, which is practically a sport in and of itself."

"You are not a good friend," T'Challa told him solemnly.

"I'm an excellent friend. I poke you when I need to at the expense of my own safety."

Deciding a different tact was in order, he swept a hand out indicating the huge crowd. "Even if I wanted to speak to her, I'd never find her."

"You could find her later. You still go to the same school."

It had occurred to him, on and off, that they might run into each other. But either he was extremely unlucky or she was actively avoiding places he might be. "I'll consider it."

"The game is starting, so I'll accept that."

"Wonderful." Jay gave him a little grin and turned to watch the game. T'Challa was even less interested in it than he had been, but he clapped and cheered at the appropriate times and tried not to bring down the group.

He tried to put the entire thing out of his mind. He had plenty of things to focus on, and he _thought_ Jay had forgotten. But when they got back from break, one morning while he was shaving—his roommate was fond of captive audiences—he discovered that wasn't the case. "The University Choir is giving a holiday performance at Mem Chu next weekend."

"That's fascinating, I had no idea you were a fan of the arts."

"She's singing in it."  
 It would be insulting to pretend he didn't know what he was talking about. "Is she now?"

"I thought that would be interesting information to you. Just in case."

"I appreciate your enlightening me." He tapped his razor on the edge of the sink. "Are you auditioning for my social director?"

"I have been your social director since the last century."

"You're never going to tire of that joke, are you?"

"Probably not. But I put up with your super-weird shit. Like you shave with a knife."

T'Challa leaned towards the mirror to finish his jaw. "It's a straight razor."

"It's _weird_."

"If you are old enough to shave your face you are old enough not to do it with training wheels."

"Uh huh." He pushed off the sink. "I'm going to get breakfast."

"Enjoy." Jay left him in peace and he finished his shaving and dressed.

Surely there was no harm in going to the concert. It would be a large crowd, she was unlikely to notice him. And he did want to hear her sing again. Though Jay would almost certainly not let him hear the end of it.

Part of the purpose of Wakandan young people being educated abroad was to familiarize themselves with foreign culture. This sort of Winter Holiday event was a common thing in western culture. He could go experience it with no ulterior motives.

Actually watching her, that rainy December night, he was kind of in awe. He'd always known on some gut-instinct level that she had something amazing inside her. Actually hearing it, in the form of an operatic Christmas Carol sung nearly acapella in a cathedral packed with people, was something else entirely.

It occurred to him, as he walked home in the rain, that perhaps she had needed to be alone to find her voice. Not that he deserved credit. But she had, in some ways, defined herself according to who she was to him. Now she had her own feet, her own wings. He would have held her down.

After that, he didn't need Jay to tell him where she might be singing. He kept an eye and ear out for small concerts and open mic nights. Sometimes his schedule didn't allow attendance - he was trying very hard not to be a stalker or groupie - but when he could go, he did. Tucked in a dark corner in the back so as not to bother her.

She usually sang covers, but every once in a while there were be an option for original music. Her songs tapped a well of heartbreak he thought might be about him. Occasionally it felt like she was singing _to_ him. He never spoke to her, if only because Tamara was always there and he was still a little afraid of her.

Then one weekend in the spring, she had a gig at a bar that was strict about IDs. Monica's birthday was in the winter, so she'd have turned 21, but he knew Tamara's was in the summer. So she'd be alone. (He heard all this information from Jay, through the network of mutual friends that lingers long after a breakup). 

T'Challa was old enough to go, so he did. Even thought it was inconvenient and all the way in San Francisco.

It was a nice club, not as loud or crowded as others he'd been to with Jay. There were couches with small tables and a lot of mood lighting. And what looked like a permanent stage in one corner, so clearly concerts were a regular thing. He got himself a whiskey on the rocks and found somewhere to lounge while waiting for her set to start.

She had on a heart stopping red dress and sang old Soul songs. The sight alone had absolutely been worth the drive. Halfway through—in the middle of a Marvin Gaye song, of all things—she must have seen him in the crowd, because their eyes met.

He felt his face flush and resisted the urge to bolt. He was a Prince of Wakanda. A future Black Panther. He was not afraid of his ex girlfriend. So he lifted his glass in a salute and smiled.

She grinned at him, like she was happy to see him. Maybe she was. 

After that she watched him. It was just a few glances at first, but she kept looking through most of _Sittin' On the Dock of The Bay_. After a pause for applause she stepped up to the mic and said. "I've got one more song, but I wanted to say thanks to everyone, have a great night, and tip the bartender, he's a great guy." 

The completely inappropriate flare of jealousy was roundly ignored.

He looked up and she was watching him. He met her eyes, and then she sang the entirety of _Midnight Train to Georgia_ right to him. 

When she was done, the applause was damn near deafening. T'Challa stood and clapped and whistled with the rest of them. She was utterly mesmerizing.  
 She disappeared from the stage and he sat again, planning to finish his drink and head home.

Abruptly the person in the seat next to him stood up and moved. He looked to see Monica sitting down in it. She had just. . . shoed the man out of the chair, like the best sort of diva. "Hello."

"Hello," he replied, at a loss. "You were fantastic."

"Thank you," she said with a genuine smile. "What brings you to my show?"

He considered lying, but it also seemed cowardly. "I heard you were singing."

Something flickered in her eyes, but he couldn't read it. "How have you been?"

"All right." Clearly not as good as her. "Still rooming with Jay. Trying to get enough credits for a philosophy minor."

"I'm doing a double major. So as not to completely kill my parents." She waved at the stage. "They think this is a phase."

His brows went up. "Have they heard you?"

She shrugged. "I don't think that matters. It's an unstable career that could lead nowhere. And they aren't wrong. I could spend my life singing in bars for tips. I could get a record deal. It's risky, and they don't like risk."

That was a very down-to-earth way to look at it, he had to admit. "Double majors, then. Hedging your bets."

"Exactly. This fails, I can go be a software engineer." She shrugged. He knew, intellectually, that people weren't usually casual about a difficult field of study like that. To have clearly world-class creative talent, and then be that smart. But he was smarter than most people, so when they were dating it had seemed normal.

"I saw you sing the anthem at the big game. It was very well done."

She grinned widely. "Star Spangled Banner is a bitch. Is yours that hard to sing?"

"Not if you know Wakandan."

"See, I'm American, so we just assume everything is in English. Even other people's languages." 

"I had noticed," he teased. "How is your brother? He must be at school now."

"He's at the University of Minnesota. He swears it's far enough." Her tone of voice indicated she didn't agree. She drained her drink, and said. "I'm going to go get another. Save the seat?"

"Of course." He watched her stand and walk to the bar, absolutely owning the room. She placed an order with the bartender, and while she waited some guy sidled up to her. He could see the irritation on her face pretty quickly. After a moment she turned and gestured in T'Challa's direction.

The guy glanced his way but turned back to her almost immediately. So he got to his feet and strolled over. "Something wrong?"

"I know that trick," the drunk-looking guy said. "You wave at some random guy and he comes over all pretending to be your man. I been to your other shows, I know you don't got one."

Monica closed her eyes and muttered, "Oh, for fuck's sake."

T'Challa was beginning to find this fun. "I am not 'her man' as you say. I am, however, an old friend of hers. We were attempting to catch up. Something that is best done without an audience."

"If she ain't yours, back the hell off," he said belligerently. "Why you lie to me?" he asked Monica."

She backed up, until her back bumped into T'Challa's chest. But her voice was steady when she said. "Because 'no' didn't work."

He gave one more chance at a peaceable solution. Touching Monica's back in comfort, T'Challa said, "I really think-"

"No one give a shit what you think, man." The guy reached out for Monica's arm. She squeaked at the tightness of his grip and T'Challa reacted. Hooking a finger under the other man's he yanked it back with a satisfying crack. He screamed and jumped back. T'Challa tugged Monica behind him.

"What the fuck? You broke my fucking finger!" 

They yell had brought the bartender over. Bouncers, he expected, would soon follow. "What's going on over here?"

In the calmest voice possible, he replied, "He put his hand on the lady. I removed it." The bartender looked skeptical.

"You wanna go?" the guy yelled, despite his broken finger. "Meet me out back, I'll kick your ass."

"I really do not want trouble," the bartender said. The bouncers appeared on either side of the guy, who had his fists up.

"I don't want it either," T'Challa assured him. "And I don't think you have thought this out thoroughly," he added to his opponent.

"Where the fuck are you from anyway?" He yelled back. "I'll kick your ass!"

"Okay," said one of the bouncers. "Everybody out." He grabbed the drunk by the arm.

T'Challa opened his mouth to protest, but Monica said, "I'm going to go get my bag from the back and then we'll leave, okay?"

He closed his mouth and inclined her head. "I'll wait for you." She nodded, and he watched her walk away. The bouncers were "escorting" the other guy outside.

Once she was back, with a bag and a jacket that didn't match the formality of her dress, she paid her tab and they left. "Sorry about this," he said.

"Not even remotely your fault," she said. "Thank you. Though I would like to find somewhere to change out of this dress, and then get a drink for real."

Wondering if this was the start of a very bad idea, he offered, "I have a hotel room." She glanced at him and he shrugged. "I wanted to drink at the bar and not worry about driving home late."

He could see the amusement on her face, which meant she didn't think he had nefarious intentions, but was probably going to tease him anyway. "Convenient. If you were creepy, I'd be worried."

"Hey, wait up, asshole!" Speaking of creepy. Their new friend had apparently followed them.

T'Challa sighed and looked heavenward. "Some people do not learn."

"Yeah, that's right! You wanna go? You wanna go?" He swayed drunkenly and got up in T'Challa's face. 

More annoyed than anything else, he reached and grasped the guy by the neck, lifting him a good foot off the ground. "We could 'go', as you say. But I am not sure you would survive." He made a choking sound, clawing at T'Challa's hand. "I'm going to put you down now. Far more gently than you deserve. If you follow us again I will not be responsible for what happens to you."

He dropped him and the guy fell on his ass. After a moment he scrambled up and booked it in the opposite direction. 

When he turned to look at Monica, she was staring at him like she wanted to eat him alive. "I forgot how strong you are," she murmured. She was in fact one of the few people who knew that at all—he'd always been careful not to draw attention. And nobody outside of Wakanda knew why.

He shrugged, feeling oddly sheepish. "I do try to solve problems peaceably." They began walking again. "Diplomacy, my father calls it."

"That part was hot, too."

"Nice to have a man who will fight for you?" he asked with a grin.

"Even if just for an evening."


	7. Chapter 7

Monica shouldn't have been surprised that the hotel room he had was at the St. Regis. He helped her out of the cab and she shook her head at him. "I missed this life of luxury, I really did."

He cast her one of his toe curling grins at her. "I did treat you well."

They crossed the lobby and he hit the elevator button. "At least you know I wasn't a gold digger. Else I'd have stuck around for the whole prince thing."

"Indeed." There was an odd inflection to the word, but he was still smiling about it. "I could have showered you in all manner of jewels."

Entering the elevator, she leaned against the wall. "I've recently come to the conclusion I am a woman who deserves things like that."

"I have always thought so. I'm glad you are doing so well, Monica," he added sincerely.

"I'm happy," she said. "In my own skin. I'm pretty proud of that."

"I'm very proud of you," he told her. "If that still means anything to you."

She inhaled and looked down. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have been such a bitch to you."

"I wasn't trying to make you feel guilty," he said quietly. "I did keep things from you for far too long. We both hurt and we both grieved. I would like us to . . . move past it. Be friends, if possible. I miss you."

Something inside her ached, from a wound she'd thought long healed. "I miss you, too."

The elevator doors slid open and he gestured for her to proceed him. "To the right. Number 902."

She stopped at the door and he opened it for her. The room had floor-to-ceiling windows with a view of the entire city. She put her bag down and took of her jacket. "You've ruined me for hotels, you know."

"I suppose the Motel 6 doesn't compare. I apologize for the misery your first tour will be."

"Not just the quality." She looked over at him. "Hotel rooms I stay in now aren't nearly as fun."

He arched a brow. "Cold lonely beds?"

"More often than not." She leaned over to pull her clothes out of her bag.

"You're welcome to use the bathroom and freshen up, if you wish."

He was, she noticed, giving her a very wide berth. "Are you happy?" she found herself asking.

His brows went up and he gave the question some thought. "More or less."

"That's a politician's answer. Neither a yes, nor a no."

"I am happy in some ways and not in others. It's an emotion, not a state of being."

"Fair enough." Why she thought his emotions were any of her business anymore, she didn't know. "I should. . ." she gestured at her clothes.

He nodded and gestured to the bathroom door grandly. Knowing he was a prince made a lot of his idiosyncrasies make sense. On the way past she leaned up to kiss his cheek and say, "Thank you."

His arm came around her waist and he held her to his chest a moment. She heard him take a deep breath, as if inhaling her scent. God knew he smelled good. Not just good but familiar, in a bone-deep sort of way. She stilled, and rested her forehead on his. Her heartbeat pounded in her ears.

For a moment they just stood like that. Just when she thought he would let her go, he tipped his face and kissed her.

She shouldn't. It was a terrible idea. She'd regret it in the morning.

She wrapped her arms around his and sank into the kiss. He groaned and there was relief in the sound. His arms tightened and he lifted her up against him, deepening the kiss. She was no one's definition of 'small' or 'light', but he made her feel like she weighed nothing. It felt natural and right in the way nothing had in a long time.

He lifted his head. "Should I apologize?" he whispered.

She knew what she wanted, right then. And she didn't care about anything else. "You can say whatever the hell you want, as long as you don't stop."

He grinned widely. "As you wish." With that, he covered her mouth with his again. She slid her hands under his sweater, shoving it and the undershirt beneath upwards. The kiss broke only so she could yank it off. Her memory had not exaggerated how gorgeous he was. Her appreciation must have been written on her face, because he chuckled, the sound rumbling through his chest. "You look pleased."

"I am." She put her hands on his chest, tracing the contours of his muscles. "I never get tired of looking at you." She turned, presenting him her back so he could undo her zipper. His breath caught audibly and she felt his hands on her dress, easing the zipper down. Then his big warm hands spread on her skin, beneath the dress, sliding it off her arms. She had on lingerie—she actually had on a garter belt and stockings—because she liked to get into character for this sort of thing. It was sheer coincidence.

He muttered something in Wakandan, and she smiled. "I know I'm doing good if you're losing your English."

"You always manage to surprise me," he told her, trailing his fingertips along the garters.

She did a turn so he could appreciate it, and then she kissed him again. More of their skin pressed together now, and it was intoxicating. Just in case he was not entire convinced of what was happening her, she reached for his belt.

He groaned a little and stood still as she undid his belt and then the fly beneath it. Then one big hand lifted and cupped her breast, thumb rubbing her nipple through the soft fabric. She let his pants go to reach behind herself and undo the hooks, pulling each strap off her shoulders.

The bra fluttered to the ground and T'Challa sighed, the sound coming from deep in his chest. His other hand came up, warm and rough and now he cupped both breasts, caressing and shaping them.

"You always did like them," she murmured, shivering at the touch.

"Because they are magnificent," he informed her. Cradling one in his palm, he ducked his head and gave her nipple one long lick before sucking it into his mouth. She swayed into him and he lifted her off her feet for a better angle. His unreal strength had always made sex a whole hell of a lot of fun. Probably why watching him pick up that guy had been so hot. This had been inevitable, she thought, right from then.

His mouth moved from one breast to the other as he turned with her in his arms. He staggered the handful of steps to the big king bed and then bent, laying her down on it and following behind. She wrapped her arms around him. "Maybe I wanted you to bend me over the dresser."

With a glance at said dresser, he snorted and continued kissing down her body. "I would break it," he rumbled.

Her breath caught. It wouldn't be the first time they broke furniture. "Might have been worth it." He kissed her stomach. "Oh, but don't stop that."

Pressing a kiss just below her navel he murmured, "You've become bossy."

She lifted up to him. "Not everybody's got your instincts."

He glanced up at her with an arched brow, but didn't comment as he kissed her through her underwear, right over her clit. It was absolute torment. She lifted her hips, trying to wiggle the lacy, delicate fabric off. He slid his fingers into the waistband to help, but there was no way to get them down her legs without undoing the garters. "May I rip them?" 

"Yes," she said desperately. She just needed him to touch her. He snapped the fabric easily, and pulled it out of his way. His fingers slid over her then and she closed her eyes and let her head fall back.

He stroked her a moment, then slid two fingers inside her. Her muscles clenched around the intrusion and he chuckled, bending to cover her with his mouth again. She felt his tongue lap at her as his fingers began to pump in and out. She made a strangled noise and clutched at him. "Really. Don't stop." She gasped and her voice changed as he hit just the right spot. "Please."

His other hand squeezed her thigh in reassurance. She had missed this man. She hadn't realized quite how much until just now. If she wanted to, she could enjoy this indefinitely. But she had other things in mind, so she caught his arm. "Wait, I take that back."

He laughed against her, lifting his head a little. "What?"

"I want you inside me before I come," she said, giving his arm a tug. He let go of her legs, and she swung one over so she could turn. "Don't break the bed," she said over her shoulder.

There was another laugh, this one almost pained. She felt a hand on her ass, squeezing, then he cupped her hips, shifting her into position so he could slide deep inside. She moaned a little. They fit so, so perfectly. They always had. She pushed back against him and he rocked her forward in reply. "Yeah," she breathed. "Like that."

His hands tightened and loosened and he started to move, long deep strokes that hit every sensitive inch of her. The bed creaked lightly with their rhythm, but seemed stable. In a minute or two she didn't care if they _did_ break it; she was lost in how good it felt. She gripped fistfuls of the duvet, not trying to be quiet about the sounds she was making. She knew he liked them. 

Then he reached beneath her to touch her and it set off a riot of pleasure. Her arms gave out as she felt it wind up. He made a noise that was almost a growl as she started to clench around him. He gave three of four hard, fast thrusts and then buried himself inside her, shaking and pouring his release into her. The room spin and her ears rang, the orgasm fading into faint little bursts of pleasure. They'd sprawled on the bed, his weight heavy on top of her. She patted his arm, all she could reach, and made a happy humming noise.

After a few moments to catch his breath he gingerly rolled off of her. One big hand covered her back, stroking lightly.

It was soothing, and she was soaked in warm emotions. Her eyes closed all on their own.

*

They drifted for a while, not asleep and not awake. T'Challa stroked her back and felt something settle inside him. Something he hadn't known was unsettled. Eventually, she stirred. "Are you hungry?"

"You used to tell me I was always hungry," he murmured.

"I suppose that was a rhetorical question then." She sat up and stretched, and he watched. "Order room service? I need to take my makeup off, this is about as long as I can stand fake eyelashes."

"Yes." He blatantly watched her. "I'll get you dessert."

"Damn straight." She swung her legs over the bed, popped her garters and rolled the stockings down. He enjoyed watching her shimmy out the the belt, too. Then she bent and scooped up his undershirt before looking back at him. "Am I staying the night?"

"You're welcome to," he said easily. He was a little hopeful they could squeeze a second round out of the night. 

"Good," she said, walking toward the bathroom. Naked. It was delightful. "Ask room service for a cup of olive oil," she said as she disappeared into the bathroom.

That mystified him for a moment, but he shrugged and dug out the room service menu, perusing a moment before lifting the phone to call in the order. She yelled, "I missed dinner, I want a burger," from the bathroom as the line rang. He thought hamburgers were an unfortunate thing to do to beef of any quality—and why eat crappy beef?—but Americans sure loved them. He ordered the food, the dessert, and her olive oil, which similarly baffled the person on the other end.

He was assured the food would be up within the next half hour and he hung up, stretched back onto the bed, hands tucked under his head.

The water in the sink went off, and she came out a minute later. She'd put his t-shirt on, which didn't cover much, but he wasn't complaining. Devoid of the elaborate going-out makeup, she looked comfortable and familiar. "That's such a man pose," she said.

"Women don't lay like this?" he asked, arching a brow.

"No." She leaned over him and kissed him. "Only self-satisfied guys."

He lifted his head a little to keep the kiss going. "I am remarkably satisfied."

"I'll just bet." She climbed over him and sat on the bed, and began carefully picking tangles out of her hair. She watched him a long moment, then said, "What are we doing here, T?"

"We are waiting for our dinner," he said, tone deliberately light.

"So not discussing it what we're doing?"

He shrugged. "I don't know that either of us has had enough time to reflect to make any long term decisions. But I'm always willing to talk."

She shrugged, studying her fingernails so he couldn't see her face. "We had a messy and painful breakup, see each other for the first time in two years and don't make it four hours before getting naked. Seems worthy of conversation is all."

"Messy and painful breakups usually leave unresolved feelings behind," he pointed out. "Are you asking me if this is going to continue?"

"That's not only up to you."

"I don't know that it's up to me at all. But you're the one who wants to talk and isn't saying anything."

She looked at him again. "Why did you come to my show?"

"I go to a lot of your shows. I saw you sing at the Big Game and then the holiday concert. I enjoy listening to you and I am, as I said, proud of you."

Her mouth opened and closed. "I had no idea."

He sat up slowly, leaning against the headboard. "I didn't want to upset you. We did not, as you say, leave on the best of terms. Singing was clearly something you have found strength in."

She scrunched up her face. "You've heard some of my own songs, haven't you?"

He couldn't help but smile at her expression. "I have, yes."

"Music helped me process things. I didn't really know what to do with my emotions so. . . I wrote."

"I understand. Finding an outlet is very useful." He inclined his head. "And the songs were lovely."

"Thank you. There are some angry ones, too. But they don't sound as good."

He grinned. "I think I'll skip those."

"I was angry because you lied to me. But even more I was angry because I had expectations of things you didn't promise me. And that's on me. You didn't make me any promises."

"We were young," he said gently. "And we got very serious, very quickly."

"Ill advised, all around."

"I think there was good to it, as well," he offered. "If you wanted to. . . try again. I think we're both in a better place for it."

She fiddled with the hem of the t-shirt. "What happens after graduation?"

Honesty was the only possible answer, even if it was likely to stop this in its tracks. "I return home and begin my Black Panther training. It's intense. Warrior training."

"Like boot camp?" she asked.

"More like Special Forces training crossed with the Spanish Inquisition. There's a part where I spend a week alone in the jungle with nothing but a knife." A vibranium knife, granted, but she didn't need to know that.

There was a knock on the door before she could reply, and she got up because she was marginally more dressed. "We're not decent," he could hear her saying at the door. "Could you just leave it in the hall?"

He was already out of bed and putting his pants back on so he could go get their tray. He didn't miss the look of disappointment he got when he passed her. Taking that as a good sign, he pecked her cheek before opening the door and rolling the table inside.

"Perhaps the conversation will be better over food," he offered.

"Every conversation is better over food," she replied. "But mostly I'm now stuck on this mental image of you trolling the jungle like Tarzan with a knife in your teeth."

"The knife is in a sheath, we're not savages."

"No, I'm not letting that image go. I find it hot." She lifted one of the plate covers up and nodded approvingly at her burger. They both ate a few bites before she said, "So, you'd have no time for a girlfriend of any sort, is what you're saying."

"After the training I'll likely be drafted into diplomatic duties. My father had plans and dreams for Wakanda. I need to be a part of that."

"So we'd have a little more than a year. And then it's over."

"Yes." It wasn't much, when she put it that way. "But I like to think it would be a very happy year."

When she looked up at him, her eyes shimmered. "Yeah, it would."

"You don't have to answer tonight," he told her. 

She munched on some fries. "Can we still hook up again even if I still need to think about it?"

That sounded like the best and worst idea he'd ever heard. "I'd like that."

"Okay," she said with a smile. She leaned over to kiss him, and picked up her requested cup of olive oil. "I'm going to text Tamara so she doesn't worry, and tame my hair for bed."

"Yes, I still fear the wrath of Tamara."

Monica laughed, and he watched her pull her phone out of her bag and send her message. Then she stood in front of the dresser and began to carefully comb the oil into her hair. He'd loved the braids, but what she had going on now was possibly better. Though there was probably little he didn't adore on her.

He finished his supper as she did her pre-bedtime routine. He neatly covered their dishes and returned to the bed, stretching out and closing his eyes, listening to her move around the room. It was nice to have company again.

She climbed into bed and tucked herself against him, his arms moving to envelope her and their bodies fitting together like no time had passed. "I really missed you."

"I missed you too," he assured her, kissing her forehead.

"There are no guarantees in life," she said quietly. "Lots of things end, it doesn't make them not worthwhile."

"That's true." He rubbed her arm. "And we'd be going in with appropriate expectations."

"It's the shock that kills you." 

"Much like falling off a cliff."

"So we'll try, then?"

"I would like that very much."

She hummed and kissed his jaw. "Are you tired?"

"A bit. But if you had some sort of activity in mind. . ."

Monica laughed. "We do have all night."


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think this was the chapter we realized Tamara was Monica's token, sassy white friend.

_February 2003_

Tamara threw her a birthday party when Monica turned 22. The two of them still shared a dorm room—while living off campus was common at many other universities, rents in Palo Alto were stratospheric so few people at Stanford did.

However, since Monica's boyfriend was seemingly unconstrained by petty things like "finances", he had an apartment in town. It was a nice place to throw a party. She had a fantastic time, and had drunk sex in the big king-sized bed she spent most of her nights in.

In the morning her memories were hazy, but apparently they were loud enough that Tamara and Jay applauded when they emerged in the morning.

She felt compelled to hide her face in his arm but T'Challa grinned happily. "Who wants breakfast?"

"As long as you're cooking," Tamara said. "I burn shit."

Monica kissed him on the cheek and he went to the kitchen. She got a cup of coffee and sat at the table to watch the rain out the big windows. The apartment was kind of. . .trashed. "I'm surprised there are no random people on the couch," she said, gesturing at it. It held only empty beer bottles.

He crouched to dig pans out of a cabinet, then walked to the refrigerator. "I have found Jay to be an excellent bouncer. Though since I imagine that's where Tamara slept, perhaps she was evicting stragglers."

She moved her eyes from the beer bottles to her best friend, who turned red and found somewhere else to look. Well, wasn't _that_ interesting. She was going to need to interrogate her later.

T'Challa appeared to miss the entire exchange, setting out ingredients for what looked like omelettes. "Was your party satisfactory?" he asked her.

"It was awesome. Though I am still waiting for my present. You said you wanted me to be sober."

"Ah yes." He grinned. "But I'm busy cooking now."

"I will refrain from cracking into the vodka again until after breakfast."

"Thank you for your patience," he said solemnly, kissing her cheek.

He made everyone omelettes and refilled her coffee. Then he sat next to her, and she hooked her ankle around his. The clock ticked on them, so she enjoyed touching him as often as she could. He rubbed her leg periodically as they ate, for similar reasons, she imagined.

When the meal was done, Tamara offered to clear the plates and T'Challa turned to Monica. "Ready for your present?"

"I am literally waiting with bated breath."

He stood and held his hand out to her, tugging her out of her chair. Leading her into the main room, he dug around in his desk a moment, then handed her a small, square, flat present. 

She tore off the paper, and found an unlabeled CD in a clear case. She frowned. "What. . .?"

He held out a slip of paper. "That is for your demo CD. I purchased you studio time. Here's the address."

Monica stared at him. "Are you serious?"

"As the grave."

"Holy shit," she breathed, looking back down at the CD.

"I think you should make an album," Tamara said. "You have plenty of songs."

She glanced over at her. "I need a producer to make an album. And label to sell it."

"I can get you that," T'Challa said easily.

She turned and raised her eyebrows at him. "You can get a producer, but you can't buy a record label. Well, _you_ probably can, but I think that would require your father. And I can't print CDs in my dorm room."

"Sell it on iTunes," Tamara said.

"What's iTunes?" T'Challa asked.

"Like Napster only you gotta pay," Jay said.

Monica propped her chin up on her hand and thought about it. It wasn't that crazy an idea. She knew people she could call, she'd done a summer internship at Apple. (This had made her mother very upset. Both because she thought it was a waste to intern at place that might be one bad quarter away from collapse, and because it meant she stayed the summer in Palo Alto in T'Challa's apartment.) "It's not. . . the craziest idea you've ever had."

"I don't think I want to know what you consider the craziest idea," Tamara said. "But I think this is worth thinking about. T'Challa's covering the expensive parts. I can help you with marketing."

"Everyone has to start somewhere," Jay offered.

They set a deadline for completion at the end of summer—which was pretty much a hard deadline, since that when T'Challa was going back to Wakanda for good, she was starting her grown-up job, and Jay and Tamara were both starting graduate school. 

It would give her something to think about aside from the fact that her entire life was turning upside down.

Time marched on even if she wasn't ready for it. The weather turned warm. Finals were taken and passed. Graduation loomed, and this meant dealing with an anticipated visit from her family. Her parents waited until the last minute and ended up booking a room in a rather shady motel two towns away that shared a parking lot with a liquor store and a Jack 'n the Box. They also did not rent a car, a problem she was going to have to solve in the morning, because she couldn't be chauffeuring them around all weekend. T'Challa's car had only a passing resemblance to a back seat, and he also needed it himself.

She'd been planning on taking them to dinner, but they'd decided to eat at the airport so she was at loose ends—they, of course, were going to sleep. Justin wouldn't be in until tomorrow.

With little else to do she drove home. Theoretically she had a dorm room, but she hadn't slept in it in months. It was pretty much Tamara's room. She parked under the building and went up, distracted by her phone—her mother was texting her to complain about the toilet paper. She stepped out of the elevator and looked up. There were four women in the hallway outside the apartment, dressed in all back, with shaved heads and gold earrings. They looked menacing. When they noticed her, all four of them pulled large knives from their belts.

Monica did the only thing that seemed appropriate at that moment, which was to scream.

The women started shouting in a language she recognized but didn't speak. Then T'Challa appeared behind them. He yelled at them, they talked animatedly for a moment. Then the knives went away and he stepped around the women to catch Monica's hands. "Hi. I wasn't expecting you until later."

She was shaking a little. "Hi," she said slowly. "They ate at the airport." 

"Ah." He glanced over his shoulder and cleared this throat. "My parents have decided to visit to see me graduate. These are their bodyguards, the Dora Milaje. They apologize for frightening you. I had not yet had a chance to warn them you would be coming."

She lowered her voice. "Are they. . . staying here?"

He chuckled. "No, they are occupying a floor of the Fairmont in the city."

"Ah." Of course they were. They were royalty. It was one of the things Monica understood intellectually, but seemed very far away from her everyday. Yet, here they were. She didn't even know if they knew about her. "Should I go?"

T'Challa paused a moment. "Would you like to meet them?"

"I would. If that's all right with them—I don't want to cause trouble."

"It will be fine. I've mentioned you to my mother several times." He reached out and tucked her hand through his arm. "They're in a very good mood."

"Okay," She said. "About to meet a king and queen. No big deal. Wish I had makeup on."

"Wakandan women don't wear makeup," he replied. Then he pushed open the door and ushered her inside. Monica took a deep breath and summoned her Stage Courage.

The King and Queen were standing by the large living room window, chatting. They both looked over when they entered. His father looked flummoxed, but his mother smiled as if she'd already figured out who Monica was.

"Baba, mater. This is Monica Lindstrom. My girlfriend." 

His father blinked, but the queen stepped forward and held her hands out to take one of Monica's. "It is very nice to meet you, Monica," she said in a warm, heavily accented voice.

She bobbed a little curtsey, which seemed the thing to do. "Thank you, Your Majesty."

"Highness," T'Challa said. "Majesty is a British thing."

"Lala, don't scold her," she said to her son in a scolding voice of her own. "She's already nervous."

"Your Highnesses," Monica said. "It's an honor to meet you."

T'Chaka stepped forward and offered her his hand. "Miss Lindstrom. A pleasure. Are congratulations on your graduation in order as well?"

"Yes, sir, thank you. I'll be walking either before or after your son, depending on what they decided to do about the name issue." T'Challa's lack of a surname had caused no end of consternation and confusion with the University, for years now.

"They're filing me with W," T'Challa said. "Last I heard."

"For Wakanda?" his mother asked, clearly amused.

"I can only assume."

She turned her gaze back to Monica. "Would you like to join us for dinner this evening?"

"That sounds lovely," she replied, even though she was slightly terrified.

"Wonderful. It will be so nice to learn more about you. Lala is very closed lipped."

That might be the most adorable nickname she'd ever heard. "Likewise," she said. "I think it's a boy thing."

His father rumbled a surprised sounding laugh. "You see, T'Challa, they're already conspiring."

T, for his part, was grinning widely. "I see that."

Dinner ended up being in their suite in San Francisco. He hadn't been kidding; it was the Presidential Suite and took up the whole floor. Their entourage also occupied a dozen rooms on the floor below. His parents were kind and gracious and good company—even if she was a little intimidated by the opulence. The suite had a grand piano, and they talked her into playing and singing a bit, as if they were in some sort of regency drama.

Afterwards, they said their goodbyes. T'Challa's parents had had an even longer flight than hers and claimed fatigue. T'Challa put an arm around her as they walked out. "You survived."

"I like them," she said. "I see why you're such a good person."

He grinned. "What a nice compliment."

Valet brought his car around, and he helped her inside. "You know, I almost wanted to dislike them. Like if they were pompous jerks it would somehow make this fall easier. If I had someone to be angry at."

"I understand," he said as he pulled into traffic. "But aren't you happy to know I'll be with people I like?"

"I am," she said quietly. "I want you to be happy."

"Thank you. I want you to be happy, too." He glanced at her, then watched the road. "And I wanted you to meet them. And them to meet you."

"You know, I kind of envy you. Your training is going to be brutal, but intense physical labor is certainly consuming and distracting. I will be sitting at a desk all day staring at code."

"You might also be watching your album sell millions of units."

She laughed. "I appreciate your wild optimism. A hundred copies would make me happy, I think."

"Well, let's call the optimum between those two."

She looked over, watching him drive for a moment. "Something we've never discussed. . . do we keep in touch? Or just. . .clean break." The thought made her kind of nauseous.

"I would prefer to keep in touch," he said carefully. "Perhaps you could even visit Wakanda sometime, once my training is complete. That was part of my reason for having my parents meet you."

"Are you asking me to wait for you?"

"No. Not at all, that wouldn't be fair. I want you to be happy, with or without me. If you were to visit as only a friend you would still be welcome."

She felt her eyes sting with tears. "I would really like that."

"So would I," he said quietly.

Saturday, improbably, their parents met at a campus event. Her mother was beside herself with meeting a real African monarch. Their Highnesses were remarkably gracious.

Sunday, they donned cap and gown and were awarded their diplomas.

Monday, after all of the parents were in the air, he surprised her with graduation trip, and they spent the next two weeks laying on a beach at a resort in Fiji. She was really, really going to miss this lifestyle.

Early July, she started recording her album.

Mid August, it was released for sale. She had steady gigs, and Tamara made up cards to hand out afterward so people could go try out her songs. 

Late August, they packed T'Challa's apartment. Much of the furniture was shipped to the tiny apartment in a sketchy neighborhood she and Tamara would be sharing. Tamara was in grad school, Monica was working for a start-up that gave her half her pay in equity. They'd be eating some ramen.

Labor Day weekend, his father sent a private jet to collect him. The goodbye was both better and worse than the first time. Like the first time, they both cried. Like the first time, she went home after and sobbed into her pillow while Tamara rubbed her back.

It was a depressing fall. In retrospect she was grateful Tamara prodded her into continuing to sing, or else she might have let the glimmer of an opportunity to do something else with her life float by on a sea of self-pity.

Just after New Years, her company announced it was being bought. Everyone said layoffs would follow. She waited until spring for the axe to fall, while her friends prodded her to search for a new job. She just couldn't muster the energy. She had equity, there would be a payout coming. Maybe she'd take a few months off.

March of 2004, the sale went through. Instead of getting cash, they were given shares of the new company as a retention tool. The buyer was Google, so she stuck around. Despite the reputation, she didn't find crunching code any more fun there. Her album kicked up the occasional spurt of money, enough to buy her and Tamara a nice dinner now and a again. Gigs helped the ends meet, but she had less and less time for them as her work hours intensified.

That summer, two things happened: Google went public, and T'Challa surfaced. She got a note via email, making a joke about how he was the first of many to suddenly re-appear now that she was rich, and including a picture someone had taken of him holding a knife in his teeth.

"It'll be almost a million dollars," Tamara said in hushed tones. "If you wait until it all vests. Plus however much the stock goes up. Which it will."

Monica was half listening, staring at the picture on her screen. "Fantastic. It'll be _almost_ enough to buy a house around here that's not partially located under a freeway on-ramp."

"It'd buy a nice town house. Or pay for rent for. . ." She paused to do math. "Twenty seven years. It'd certainly buy studio time for another album."

"That was a lot of effort for not a lot of gain." She opened the picture again. "Maybe I'll cash out and go bum around the world." 

"You could do that on far less than a mil, yes." Tamara sounded vaguely exasperated but that was pretty common. Monica didn't reply, so Tamara got up to see what she was looking at. She tilted her head at the picture and said, "You could have just said you were busy looking at porn."

She felt herself flush. "It's an inside joke," she said defensively. An inside joke that had kind of been about sex.

"So he's reemerged from the jungle?"

"He's not done yet, I think this is just a break." She touched the screen. "He did promise he'd stay in touch."

"He was always as good as his word."

She looked up at Tamara. "You think it's a bad idea?"

"I think every time he leaves you fall to pieces and it takes months to put them back together," Tamara said, walking back to the couch. "And I don't understand why you want to keep doing it."

"I'm just talking about exchanging some emails. I'm not, like, going over there." Not at the moment, anyway.

"Because continuing to bleed the wound will be healthy how?"

"It almost certainly isn't," she said with a sigh.

Tamara studied her a moment, then sighed a little. "Look, it's your life. And I know you love him. He's a great guy. But you did really well without him. You started singing, found your confidence. And now you have this huge windfall, a job with a company that's only going up. And you're mooning over a picture on a computer. And God knows when the next one will come. I'm not saying don't be friends with him. But don't let it take over your life again. He told you to be happy with or without him. You owe it to both of you to try."

She rubbed her eyes. "You're right. I just feel. . . restless. And I know that's stupid. I've only been doing this job a year. And I know everybody and their uncle wants to work for Google and as far as a corporate job goes I have it as good as I possibly can."

"A lot of people get restless after college, or so I'm told. But if you're not happy, you're not happy. Google or not. You'll still make a tidy chunk of change if you cash out. Or leave some of it to vest. Do you want to find another start up?"

"No, I wasn't fond of the hours. What I really want to do is make music."

"Then let's try that."

"You make this sound like a joint venture."

She shrugged. "I have a degree in business and am working on a masters. Being a successful singer is a business. You buy in and I'll be your manager. We'll get you some regular gigs, advertise. I'll see what it takes to get you on local radio. If you want to be a singer, let's make that a full time job and see what happens."

What happened, at first, was modest success. With promotion and outreach, facilitated by her stock fund and Tamara's instincts that the newly developing social media was useful and not a fad, she made enough money from performances and album sales to keep the lights on. She wrote songs and made a living off of that, and it made her happy. She maintained a friendship with her long lost prince, but made a deliberate choice to stay on her side of the world. She even had a guy here or there.

She had a hundred sad songs if not about him, written from the well of emotions he caused in her. Ironic that it was a happy song, an anthem to friendship that was unabashedly about Tamara, that caught the attention of a record producer in LA sometime in 2006. They contained their shrieking until after the call ended.

That song eventually sat on the top of the Billboard charts for five weeks in 2007. The album that followed went triple platinum. 

In 2008, she won three Grammys and headlined a international tour.


	9. Chapter 9

_2010_

Tamara stayed on has Monica's manager, eventually dropping out of graduate school to do it full time. It might have been odd to have her best friend work for her, but the relationship was equitable. Monica might the name at top of the ticket, so to speak, but Tamara was the one who ran the operation and gave the marching orders. It grew from the two of them to a significant entourage. She was like an industry unto herself.

Their crappy apartment in San Jose turned into a condo in Los Angeles. Which became a house in LA. Which became a mansion on Highway 1 in Malibu down the road from Tony Stark. She bought Tamara a Porche for her birthday one year. She bought her parents a sprawling house on Lake Michigan and seven-figure seed-funding for her brother's start-up.

Every year at Christmas, she bought herself a Cartier Panther necklace, like some sort of talisman. A superstitious touchstone. Tamara had given her back the tiny gold pendant from all those years ago, but these days she bought the much flashier ones. 

The one she bought in 2010, for example, cost a quarter million dollars.

"That might be a little much," Tamara told her when she wore it to the Grammy's two months later. Her second album had collected multiple nominations. "Even for you."

"Kitty!" Ellie, Tamara's two year old, shrieked excitedly and yanked on said necklace.

"See?" she asked Tamara, who was inspecting herself in her bedroom mirror. "The kid likes it." Holding a toddler while wearing designer formalwear was dicey business, but Ellie was a good sport, even if she was now chewing on the necklace.

"Because toddlers are known for their excellent taste in accessories," Tamara said. "I sent you pictures of her in the spaghetti noodle hat, did I not?"

"It was a fabulous hat. I will be an old black lady someday, and I will wear fabulous hats to church."

"Why wait? I'm sure there's time to get a hat commissioned in the-" Tamara checked her watch. "Thirty seven minutes before we're supposed to be there.

"We're going to the Grammy Awards, not Easter Service." She bounced Ellie. "But I am going to buy you some more hats," she told the little girl. She was biracial, she'd be able to pull off the crazy Church Hat someday.

There was a knock on the bedroom door, and Monica's assistant stuck her head in. "Limo's here."

"Thanks, Zari," Monica said.

"Can you send Rosa in to get the baby," Tamara said. "And tell my husband he has 86 seconds to present himself in the front hall wearing an entire tuxedo. That includes the tie. Tied."

Zari laughed. "Got it." She ducked out again.

Tamara reached for Ellie and gave her kisses. "Be good for Rosa. Daddy and I will see you in the morning."

She stuck her lower lip out. "No tomorrow."

"Yes, tomorrow. You need your sleep or you'll be all cranky pants."

Ellie pouted, but went with her nanny without a tantrum. Monica straightened her necklace and they went into the the hall. "The panther thing has long been noticed by the public, and now it's an expectation."

"You just like having an in joke in front of the entire world."

"I kind of do."

Jay was waiting in the front hall, in his tux. "My tie is tied," he proclaimed.

Tamara beamed and stepped forward to kiss him. "I'm very proud. You look hot."

"Thank you. Let's go get some statues."

"No," Monica said. "No assuming. It's bad luck."

"Let's get in the car anyway," Jay said without missing a beat. 

She'd done lots of red carpets by now, but the barrage of cameras and questions still made her nervous, far more than giving a concert in a football stadium. It was sort of a desensitization, though, because then she was never nervous receiving whatever award she was there for.

Which she won, of course. She sang during the show, and collected four awards. Three years ago, she'd babbled and they had to bring the music up on her, but now she had a quick, witty little speech memorized, and got out of everyone's way.

The fun was in the parties anyway. Grammy after-parties were pretty wild.

"So am I dragging you out of these at a certain hour?" Tamara asked in the limo to the first one. "Or do you feel like making headlines?"

"I'm not going to get drunk and run naked across the lawn, if that's what you're asking."

"It would almost certainly boost your sales," Jay offered.

She laughed. "Thankfully we're not hurting for that." She patted Tamara's arm. "Don't worry, I'm about to turn 30, I'm slowing down. I promise not to keep you out all night."

"Good, because I am also almost 30 and a mother and would really like to be on my couch with some ice cream."

The first party was slow moving and stuffy. They were bored. They second was a little too far the other way. Loud, overcrowded, poorly done lighting. It made Monica feel old. "Hey, listen, I just need to hit the bathroom," she told Tamara after their obligatory one drink. "Then we can find somewhere better to be."

Waving her phone she replied, "I'll see if I can find somewhere more our speed."

"You are, as always, the best." She picked up her clutch and went in search of the bathroom. She got lost, the place was a maze. Eventually she found the bathroom, and got lost again on the way out. She pulled out her phone to text Tamara to ask her if this damn building had a fire map when a man bumped into her. She felt an odd prick in her arm, and suddenly she felt woozy and the room spun.

It was only a few moments before everything went black.

*

T'Challa usually woke to the sound of his assistant banging on his door, informing him he was about to be late for whatever meeting he was scheduled to appear at. There was not an alarm clock in the world that could sufficiently wake him up. When he was king, he'd probably have an entire wing of R&D working on the problem.

His cell phone ringing and vibrating on his nightstand usually had no more success. So it must have been going a long time when he finally stirred and reached for it. The sound he made was something resembling a greeting, he was sure.

"Jesus, there you are. I'm sorry. I have no idea what time it is over there. This your private number, right?" 

It took him a minute to place the frantic rambling voice. "Tamara?"

"Yes. I need your help." She sounded _very_ upset.

He shoved himself into a sitting position. "What is it? Where's Monica?"

"I don't know. She went to the bathroom at a Grammy party and never came back. The police told me she probably just went partying or found a guy and would show up in the morning. Call them if it's been 24 hours. She wouldn't ditch me in the middle of a party we were about to leave. Something happened. And I. . . I didn't know what to do or who to call and I figured you're royalty so maybe—"

"All right," he said gently, stopping the flow of words. "Where are you? Are you home?"

"Yes."

"Good. Stay there. Keep all your phones charged and handy and check your email regularly. Call to local hospitals and ask if anyone matching her description has come in. I will pack a bag and arrange transport to LA."

"Thank you," she said quietly. There was a pause, then she added, "If she shows up in an ER, it'll be in news pretty immediately. Do you know how famous she is? She gets stalked by paparazzi, she can't just _vanish_."

"Stranger things have happened. If she had an allergic reaction to something or fell and hit her face she could be unrecognizable."

Tamara took a deep breath. "I will call and ask about the Jane Does."

Mostly it was to give her something to do. Tamara liked things to do. "I will call you when I know my arrival time. Keep in touch."

He hung up, threw on some clothes and went out into the hall, where his assistant was just rounding the corner. 

"I need fifteen minutes with my father," he called to Bahati. "Then I need to fly to the United States."

She stopped mid stride. "Got it. Anything else?" she added, as if that wasn't enough.

He paused. Tamara was right. Monica was not the type to just disappear, and if she'd had an accident at a Grammy's party then _someone_ would have noticed or recognized her. Odds were good that was a kidnapping, of some sort. "I'm going to need my suit."

"To take to the US?" she asked, for clarification. And probably surprised. Clearly the answer was on his face. "Right. Half an hour with the King," she said, and then turned and dashed off.

There was nothing to do until he heard from her, so he headed downstairs to get breakfast. He was nursing his second cup of coffee when Bahati texted him that his father could see him immediately. He slugged down the rest of his drink and went jogging to his father's office.

"Come in, come in," his father called. "You saved me from a meeting where is sounded like there were a lot of slide decks."

T'Challa chuckled. "I have always had excellent timing," he said, sinking into one of his father's guest chairs. He cleared his throat. "I need to go to America for a while."

"America? Why?"

"Monica has been kidnapped." He probably shouldn't say it. He didn't know for sure. But he still _knew_. Down in his bones.

He leaned back in his chair. "The Americans do have their own law enforcement, and they're pretty territorial."

"The police had refused to investigate until she's gone 24 hours. They believe she's run off to party somewhere."

He pursed his lips, then nodded. "Would do you good to have to fight someone who is trying to kill you." 

Didn't matter why he said yes, long as he agreed. "I promise to do you proud."

"Be safe," he said. "Go."

"Thank you, Baba," he said respectfully, getting to his feet. That had gone far more smoothly than he expected. He got his suit packed and the plane was readied for him. It was sub-orbital and capable of stealth travel, so they could do without flight clearances as long as they were careful and stayed above or below the commercial airline traffic. He did not want any sort of scenario where he had to take his warrior suit through customs.

Once they were in the air he updated Tamara on his ETA, and then he had nothing to do but sit and worry. He managed to doze a little, but it was fitful and plagued by nightmares.

Tamara had sent a car for him, so he could avoid the public. It took him directly to Monica's house overlooking the ocean. It was morning, and there were numerous cars, including several police cars, in the drive. Shouting and gun pointing started the moment he got out of the car—American police were very jumpy. He was trying to tell them he was invited when Jay, of all people, came out the front door. They'd lost touch, T'Challa hadn't seen him in years. "He's with us, he's Monica's boyfriend."

Guns were lowered and apologies muttered. T'Challa felt safe enough to walk forward and shake Jay's hand. "Hey. What are you doing here?"

"Tamara and I got married a couple years back."

He blinked. "Seriously? Congratulations."

"Thanks," he said. "We have a little girl. She's with her nanny right now." Jay showed him a picture on his phone as they went inside. The toddler was grinning toothily, with a reddish afro and creamy brown skin.

"You should get her a modeling career," T'Challa said, only half joking.

"Like Tam needs any more clients."

They got into the house, and Tamara was in the living room arguing with several men in suits. She turned when she saw him and put a hand up to them before jogging over. "God. Thank you for coming."

He held his arms out to hug her. "Of course. I'm glad you called me. Has there been a ransom demand?"

"This morning. Just a little bit ago. The FBI is here, they think the kidnappers are professional, a terrorist organization that apparently does this from time to time." She rubbed her eyes. "Something with rings? Ten Rings. The people who took Tony Stark a couple of years ago. You know he lives like a mile up the road, Monica said he hit on her once, maybe I should go knock on his door. Seems like the kind of guy who holds a grudge. Anyway the FBI said we should pay the ransom."

T'Challa glanced back at the men in suits. "And how much have they asked for?"

"Ten million dollars. She has that kind of money, but I can't get at it. I don't know why they think I can."

"Terrorists are not known for their long term thinking." He, of course, could get at that sort of money. "Did they call or send a tape?"

"Text message." She took a breath. "Picture of her necklace with blood on it."

Ignoring the cold put forming in his stomach, he held his hand out. Tamara dug her phone out of her pocket and flicked through it a moment, before handing it to him. There were a few bubbles worth of threats and demands, then the picture. Well, that would make him feel better about killing them all.

The FBI agents came over. "We think it's unlikely we'll be able to locate her. She may already be out of the country. These are people that don't negotiate. The best bet is to pay them. In past dealings with them, it has sometimes resulted in the safe return of the victim."

"Sometimes?" Tamara asked. 

The guy winced a little, clearly regretting his choice of words. "Ruthless men are generally not concerned with collateral damage once they have what they want," T'Challa said. "I can pay the ransom."

He raised his eyebrows, and then nodded. Tamara whispered, "Thank you."

The FBI agent held out his hand for the phone. "We should let them know so arrangements can be made."

T'Challa handed it over and watched him walk away. "Congratulations on your wedding," he said to Tamara for lack of anything else to say.

"Thank you," she said. "For everything. I take back every shitty thing I ever said about you."

He smiled. "I'm sure I deserved most of it."

The Agent returned. "We got a reply pretty quickly, but we don't understand it. This mean anything to either of you." He showed them the phone.

_Changed our minds. We want ten kilos of what we can't buy but you can get._

Tamara looked lost but that pit was back in T'Challa's stomach. "Clearly, they knew more than we thought they did."

"What are they asking for?" Tamara asked. "Is that a riddle? How are we supposed to know what they can't buy?"

"They want something I can get," he said. "That is not for sale."

The FBI agent was looking at him suspiciously, exchanging glanced with the other Agent. All he needed was to get arrested. They probably thought he was a drug dealer. 

"Call your boss," Jay said from behind them. "Probably going to need to kick it up to his boss's boss. Ask them what they make in Wakanda." Unlikely they'd get told, but he admired his friend's deft sending them on pointless chase.

There was an upside to this. If this was about vibranium then it stopped being a personal matter and became a state matter. Calling the Wakandan Intelligence Service would be tremendously helpful.

"I will make a call," he told Tamara softly as the Agents walked away, pulling their own phones out. "And we will settle this."

"You're going to get them whatever apparently classified thing they want?"

"I'm going to have my version of them-" He gestured at the men in suits. "Find out where the Ten Rings are keeping Monica. And I am going to get her back."

She stared at him. "By. . .yourself?"

"Yes." She arched a brow. "I did not spend a month in the jungle for fun, Tamara."

"I just assumed there was, like, a whole team. Like special forces. Unless you've got an Iron Man suit in your car." There must have been something on his face, because she leaned forward and whispered, "Do you?"

"It's a little more streamlined. But effective armor."

"Holy shit."

"Indeed. Phone?"

Tamara straightened. "Right, of course, this way."


	10. Chapter 10

Assessing a situation honestly was the best way to handle a crisis. For lack of anything better to do, that's what Monica was doing.

Her captors seemed to have no real interest in harming her, which surprised her. As a woman, it's a fair bet to assume that a kidnapping means imminent rape, but no one had so much as leered at her—in fact, they'd thrown a shapeless, heavy-fabric dress/robe thing at her and demanded she put it on instead of her evening gown. The worst they'd done is drug her and cut her arm.

On the other hand, the cut on her arm was clearly infected at this point. She was handcuffed to a metal bed frame in a dank, windowless room, surrounded by a couple of menacing goons with big guns. She'd been given the barest food and water and had no idea how long she'd been here.

She had no idea what they wanted, and no idea how long she'd be alive.

Despite her honest assessing she was trying to avoid that particular thought. She was pretty sure if she let it sink in she'd start to panic. And that wasn't going to help anything.

There was commotion somewhere beyond the locked door. Sounded like a lot of yelling and fighting. They'd brought her a meal an hour or two ago, so she wasn't going to see anyone for a while. Not like they'd catch her up on hideout gossip when the did come in.

Guns were firing outside, the men in the room with her looking at each other in alarm. The shouting outside took on a panicked tone. Whatever it was, it scared her captors.

She tried to sit up, wondering if she should be worried about this. There was a certain logic to the enemy of her enemy being her friend. But it was entirely possible she'd be going from the frying pan to the fire.

The door exploded open, a body flying through it. A dark shape filled the doorway and her guards lifted their guns, opening fire. The noise was deafening, but the bullets seem to bounce right off him.

He stalked towards them, grabbing the gun out of one of their hands and using it to club the other one across the face.

Monica crawled to the back of the bed, her handcuff sliding over the headboard rail, pushing it far enough from the wall to get behind it. Whatever good that might do. She crouched down and hoped she didn't get shot.

There were a few moments of chaos, then utter silence. She heard a rough intake of breath and then a very familiar voice. "Monica?"

She looked up. The dark shape was clearly a man, in some sort of suit that had oddly. . .feline features to it. Reminded her a bit of a panther. "T'Challa?"

He lifted a hand and peeled the mask off, revealing his face. He grinned at her. "Hello."

She lifted her arms—or tried, before being yanked back by the handcuffs. He reached over, claws extending out of his glove. He cut the steel like it was string.

To be honest, she didn't care. She was just happy she could throw her arms around him. He caught her against his chest, lifting her off the bed. "You're all right?" he asked softly, one hand stroking her hair and cupping her head.

"Now I am." How he was here, she didn't know. But he was and that was enough. Something inside her crumbled and she started to cry.

He rocked her a moment, then scooped her up into a bridal carry and headed for the door. "Don't look," he said softly. "I've got you."

Part of her wanted to look. But she'd never seen violence, not in real life. And he didn't seem to have any weapons. Just those claws that could rip steel. She decided bad guys or no, she didn't want to see what that did to somebody. So she kept her face pressed into his neck.

He carried her out of whatever building they'd been keeping her in and tucked her into the front seat of a car. "All right, you're safe. Do you need a hospital?"

"They didn't hurt me. You might notice this burka-thing I'm in. Well, they cut my arm." She held it out. "I think it's infected."

"That might be worth a doctor looking at it."

"Can we call a concierge doctor? I don't want to go to a hospital."

He climbed into the driver's side and peeled his gloves off. "We'll wait until we get back to LA, then."

She nodded, and looked out the window. "Where are we?"

"Central Mexico. We have a bit of a drive before the airport."

They could have killed her, and nobody would have even known what happened. But she didn't want to think about that right now. "So. . . you're bulletproof?"

"The suit is." He glanced over. "It's threaded with vibranium."

Vibranium was very precious, very rare metal, and Wakanda was its only source. Not a lot of people knew that. Very, very few had any idea how much Wakanda had. Attempts by the European colonial powers to invade had gone so disastrously no one had even tried in a century. From what little Monica had seen, they'd be wise to keep it that way. "How did you find me?"

"Wakanda has the best intelligence agency in the world." He grinned at her. "Don't tell the CIA."

"Did you see the kidnapping on the news?"

"Tamara called me when you first disappeared. By the time I landed the first demand had been made."

Monica turned to look at him. "I didn't even know she had your number."

"She called the private line. I assumed you had given it to her."

"Well. She's my manager, she has access to all of my stuff. I'm not surprised the put it in her book just in case." She watched the streetlights cast yellow shadows across his face. "Thank you," she said quietly.

"Of course." He looked over at her, clearly surprised. "If you ever need my help I'll be there."

"It's been a lot of years," she said. "And I've kept you at a careful distance."

"I still considered us friends. You are a very important part of my life. If I could help you, I would."

"I am sorry about that," she said. "Avoiding you."

He lifted a shoulder. "I understand. I would have understood if you had turned me aside entirely. You needed to focus on your life, your career. I was a very large distraction."

She looked back out the window. "I love you. It's been a decade, I don't think it's going away. It's part of me, like a limb. Yet I cannot have you. I thought maybe space would somehow make it better."

After a moment of silence he said, "You could come back with me."

"Considering what just happened, that's very appealing."

"Wakanda is beautiful. Lush rain forest. Warm weather all year long."

Anywhere but here sounded good. She'd be safe there. He'd keep her safe. 

He turned down a dirt road to an airstrip, where a small, sleek black jet waited. There wasn't much space inside, but the flight wasn't long. It took off vertically, so she assumed it could land the same way. "You can probably put it down on my tennis court." 

"That's a good idea. Do you want to call Tamara? She's been worried."

"Do you have a phone?" She asked, and he reached over to pull his out of the cup holder by his seat. "Thank you."

He nodded and she dialed Tamara's number. "T'Challa?" she answered with, sounding vaguely panicked.

A lump formed in her throat. "It's me. I'm okay."

"Oh, thank God, he found you. Are you okay? Tell me you're okay."

"I am, I am. The worst they did to me was cut my arm. They're dead now. They're like, _all_ dead." He had just killed a bunch of people, like an action movie. But they were evil people. "We're on the jet coming home now."

"Okay." Monica could hear her take a breath and let it out slowly. "I was so worried."

"You're still the best in the world at saving my ass."

"I will happily take an assist for this one. As soon as you're here and I can glomp you."

"We're landing on the tennis courts. Be there and you can glomp all you want. And then go home an get some sleep and snuggle your baby."

"That sounds like a hell of a plan. Do you want me to have anything waiting for you here?"

"A doctor to come look at my arm, and make sure the spa is hot and running."

"On it. Safe flight."

They landed two hours later, the jet setting down just where she told him. Tamara met them, and there was a lot of hugging and crying. A lot of crying. She couldn't seem to decide if she wanted to hug Monica or T'Challa or both so she went back and forth a few times until T'Challa excused himself to change out of his suit.

Tamara had arranged a concierge doctor and sat with her while he checked out her arm, bandaged it and prescribed antibiotics.

"Do you need painkiller?" the doctor asked.

She shook her head. "No."

"Something to help you sleep?"

"I'll be fine. Really." She didn't much want to sleep, if she was being honest. "I just want to soak in my hot tub and then take a very long shower."

He nodded and offered her a small smile. "Sounds like an excellent prescription."

It took her a while after the doctor left to convince Tamara to go home and sleep in her own bed. "T'Challa is going to sleep in one of the guest rooms. He will keep me safe. You should be there when Ellie wakes up in the morning. Go sleep next to your husband. You look like you've been awake for days."

"I slept a little the other day," she protested. But she gave Monica one last long hug and let her push her into a car to take her home.

Monica closed and locked the door behind her. She wished she had a second deadbolt. She wished all the glass was bulletproof.

T'Challa was standing a few feet behind her when she turned. "I'm going to soak in the spa. You're welcome to come. I imagine that was all quite a workout."

"A hot soak would be very pleasant," he agreed, polite as always.

That made her smile. "You are the calmest person I have ever known."

He chuckled. "It takes a great deal of training."

She came closer to him. "Don't," she said softly. "It's just the two of us. No training."

Slowly, he lifted his hand and stroked his knuckled against her cheek, then smoothing her hair back. "It seemed you wanted me to be the calm one. So you could break down, if you needed."

"We could break together. I wouldn't mind." He bottled up everything. If you didn't know better, you'd think he just coasted through life on a sense of humor and a sense of zen. But that wasn't true at all. Even if she was the only one who saw how deep the current of emotion ran.

He drew her close and held her a moment. His hands stroked her back and after a moment, he kissed her hair. "Let's try the spa. Water is very soothing."

Her whole body ached, so she didn't argue. She didn't feel like bothering with a bathing suit, and she knew he didn't have one. The water was really bubbly anyway. It was warm and soothing and felt to good for her to waste energy being shy in front of the person who'd probably seen her naked the most of anyone she knew.

They didn't speak as they walked out to the hot tub and peeled out of their clothes. There was a stack of fluffy white towels on one of the deck chairs, courtesy of Tamara, she was sure. He looked as good as he always had. Better, even.

It would be rude to stare, he was conspicuously not looking at her. Then she sank down into the bubbles and didn't care any more. He stepped into the water across from her, not hiding a thing as he sat and stretched his arms out along the edge of the tub. He groaned, tipping his head back. "Much better."

She didn't know what to say, but she was suddenly desperate for some sort of connection to ground her. Make her feel safe. So she reached along the top edge to tangle her fingers with his. He looked briefly surprised, but shifted his hand to hold hers properly. "Do you want to talk?"

She sighed a little. "About what?"

"About what happened. What you're feeling." He paused. "Or the Grammies. Whatever."

That made Monica chuckle a little. Then she swallowed, the fear sticking in her throat again. "I can't—I—I—If I start I feel like everything is just going to come flooding out."

"It will need to come out eventually," he said softly.

"Do you ever let it out?" She looked over at him. "Maybe you don't need to. You can lift hundreds of pounds are are sort of bullet proof. Does that save you from being terrified?"

"No," he admitted. "But there is no shame in being terrified. Fear is necessary to being human."

"I was plenty human without spending two days waiting to be raped and/or murdered."

"Of course. I was simply trying to explain why we don't try to train fear out of our warriors."

She shook her head. "No, I'm sorry. I'm just. . . a mess."

"It's all right. You can snap at me all you want."

She tucked her legs up and hugged her knees to her chest. "I missed you. You were always like the eye of the hurricane that is my life."

"We have always balanced each other very well. Light and dark, chaos and order. The myths of my people love such things."

"Our myths are fond of those, too. Star-Crossed Lovers. Doesn't always end well."

"No." He tipped his head back. "In some they actually end up in the stars."

"You going to tell me Wakandan bedtime stories?" She wouldn't entirely mind that. His voice was one of her favorite sounds in the world.

"If you like. I know them all. Some are happier than others."

What she wanted to do, most in the world, was crawl over there and into his lap. They were naked in a hot tub. It would be easy. Maybe expected. She wanted too. He'd saved her life and tonight she felt particularly alone. But she wasn't quite so messed up she couldn't see it would be a terrible idea.

"I think I'm just going to crawl into bed," she said after a moment. "I haven't slept much."

"Of course. I'll be right down hall, if you need me."

She squeezed his hand. "Thank you. For everything."

"You're very welcome."

She grabbed a towel and climbed out of the tub. "Feel free to soak as long as you want. I'll see you in the morning."


	11. Chapter 11

The rapid knocking pulled T'Challa out of sleep. He was in a strange bed and had a disorienting moment before he remembered where he was. Monica. Kidnapping.

He rolled out of bed in one smooth move and opened the door. She was on the other side, crying and in the middle of wiping her nose. "Hi. I'm sorry. I couldn't—I just—"

Heart aching, he reached out and gathered her up into a hug. "It's all right. I've got you."

She pressed her face into his chest and sobbed. "I thought they were going to kill me."

He rocked her, rubbing he back. "I know. I know."

"I can't sleep. I keep thinking I hear sounds and see things in the shadows. Like they're coming back for me."

"Do you want to sleep in here?" he asked. "Or I can come to yours. . ."

She nodded, then said, "My bed is nicer."

"All right." He kissed her temple and loosened his hug. "Lead the way."

Her bed was, in fact, nicer. And still warm from her laying in it. She curled up against him, held on tight, and cried a little bit more. He stroked her hair, holding her close. As she calmed he started talking, telling her an old folktale his mother had used as a bedtime story. It was the tale of a vain prince turned into a panther and the village girl who loved him. It was a beauty and the beast myth, except at the end the girl made a deal with the gods to become a panther herself, rather than turning the prince human again.

"That's very Midnight Train to Georgia," she told him.

"It made sense when I was a little boy," he replied. "Being a panther sounded like far more fun than being a human." He chuckled and squeezed her. "The first time I heard the western version I was amused at the twist."

"I always liked the idea. Beauty isn't just appearance. Love can make miracles happen."

"Candles can sing and dance."

"Oh, hush." She took a deep, slow breath. "Tell me another."

He told her one about Bast giving fire to men and teaching them how to coax food from the land. When the was done he told her the story of the little boy who set out traps to feed him and his mother and kept catching magical animals who offered to help him another day if they set him free. It was a silly, circuitous tale, with lots of repetition, but it made her chuckle a little, here and there.

She was quiet after he finished, and for a moment he thought she might have drifted off, but then he heard her sniffle.

Rubbing her back in wide circles, he spoke quietly. "Monica?"

She sniffled again. "I'm just really grateful you're here."

He smiled a little. "There is nowhere else in the world I would rather be."

"Laying the the dark and telling me bedtime stories?"

"It's quiet soothing for me, too, you know. I always enjoyed those old stories."

She propped her chin on her hand to look up at him. "I wish real life had happy endings."

"So do I." He twined some of her curls around the tip of a finger. "The gods are not kind authors."

She watched him for a moment, then whispered, "I want to feel something good."

He studied her face in the dark. "Are you sure?"

"If there is one thing on this earth you and I are good at. . ."

His head told him it was probably a bad idea. She was vulnerable and dealing with a great deal of trauma. But Monica had always known her own mind and he had always trusted her. He bent closer and kissed her. He felt as much as heard her sigh and she sank into him, reaching up to curve one hand around the back of his neck.

For a few minutes they just kissed, touches gentle and almost hesitant. They were relearning each other. Then her kiss got more urgent and he rolled with her, until she was sprawled on top of him and their entire bodies touched.

She straightened up, pulling the tank top she was wearing up over her head. It reminded him of the first time, the two of them laughing and stripping off pajamas in the dark. They were in fancy bed, and not on an old sofa, but it felt the same. She made him feel the same. Though it was obvious by now that everybody how wonderful she was. And she still wanted him.

Gathering her close again, he kissed her throat, her breasts. He flattened a hand on the center of her back, arching her so he could take one taut nipple in his mouth and suck. Hard. She gasped, a desperate sound that was exactly what he wanted. She held on to the back of his head.

After giving her other breast equal attention, he kissed her mouth and turned, laying her back on the bed. She wore thin pajama bottoms, which he slowly slid down her long legs. She sighed, and he could almost feel her relaxing. Her whisper was so quiet he nearly missed it. "You keep me safe."

Stroking her thigh, he sat up enough to look at her face. "Always," he promised.

She reached for him, arms winding around his neck to pull him down to her. She wrapped a leg over his, too, holding him like she was afraid he'd vanish. Groaning a little, he ran his hands up her sides, then down to cup her hips. She lifted and he shifted and then he was sinking into her. She was hot and slick and made the sexiest sound he'd ever heard. 

He lifted his head to look at her, and she traced her fingers across his cheekbone and down his jaw. Turning his head, he kissed her wrist and started to move, slow and deep, inside her. She made a little gasping sound every time he pushed back in, closing her eyes and tipping her head back as her body arched. "More. Please." He felt her nails on his skin. "I won't break."

He chuckled a little, but tugged her leg up higher and gave her what she asked for, moving faster and harder, making the mattress shudder beneath them.

She let him got to brace her hands against the headboard behind her, lifting up to meet every thrust. She was seductive and gorgeous and _his_. She tensed and shuddered and cried out has he felt her come around him. It felt incredible, there was no chance of him lasting past it. He chased his own pleasure a moment before burying himself deep inside and sinking into her.

They drifted for a long moment after. Then he heard the sniffles again. Immediately, he pushed up on his hands to look down at her. "Honey?"

"Sorry. I think tonight I'm just a mess of emotions." She reached up to touch his face. "I did miss you. All the years that pass never seem to matter."

He kissed her fingertips and eased off of her, tucking her into his side. "We are two sides of a coin."

"We deserve our own fairy tale."

"I shall start the royal scribes on it immediately."

She laughed, and seemed to settle against him. "How long can you stay?"

"A few more days. And the offer to come back with me is open."

She was still, but he could tell she was still awake. "That was serious?"

"Of course." He rubbed her back gently. "Time and distance have not cooled what is between us. Perhaps it's time we gave into it."

"How would that work? Would I have to give up my career? Would you father even let me come?"

"We have recording studios in Wakanda," he said, slightly amused. "And I admit I haven't asked but I believe my parents would love to have you."

"It's not just recording, I tour. Not that I particularly want to tour right now. But I do have contracts. And employees. I have a life here."

She made an excellent point. "You could just take a vacation. We don't need to figure out all the logistics now."

"Sounds nice." Her arms tightened on him. "Let me think about it?"

Monica slept in his arms, and was still asleep when he slipped out of bed early. He wanted to call his father while it was still a decent hour. He told him the entire story, including the twist about the vibranium that he hadn't told Monica about yet.

Much to his surprise, before he could even float the idea himself, his father said, "You need to bring her here."

Something in his tone unsettled him a little, so he said carefully, "I had offered to have her come for a vacation and recuperate. I had not expected you to be so eager."

"Because you don't seem to have any idea how much danger she is in."

"I had no way of knowing this would happen. We haven't spoken in person in years."

"I know, I'm not saying you did. But now that it's become apparent that she has been connected to you, and to us, by one of the larger international criminal organizations—and they know it will get them your attention—it would be best if she came here where she can be kept safe until we figure this out."

"I will discuss it with her again," T'Challa promised him. 

"You both need to take this seriously."

"I will impress that upon her."

"Be safe, then. I will see you when you get home."

"Thank you, Baba. I will let you know if anything changes."

The bed was empty when he got back, and he felt a moment of panic before his brain processed that the shower was running. The bathroom door was partially opened, and he went over it until he could actually see her behind the foggy glass. Finally his pulse slowed again. If she didn't come with him, he had no idea how he'd leave.

He went to the guest room she'd assigned him to dress and shave and brush his teeth, then went downstairs to cook breakfast. Difficult conversations were always better on a full stomach.

She game downstairs a bit later, in shorts and a tank top, scarf wrapped around her hair and in a bun behind her neck. "If you weren't here, I'd have seriously considered shaving my head." She came over to kiss his cheek. "This brings back memories."

He smiled and expertly flipped the pancake he was currently cooking. "You only love me for my kitchen skills."

"No, there are other skills I enjoy just as much."

"Ah, of course. How hungry are you?"

"Starving, they didn't feed me much, and last night I was rattled."

"Stack as big as my head, got it."

She sat at her kitchen island and looked out the ocean. "I've got a tour coming up in the spring. Now I wonder if I should cancel it."

"It might be worth thinking about." He flipped a pancake onto a plate. "I spoke with my father."

"Let me guess. . .Wakanda isn't open for tourists?"

"Not at all. He suggested you come. He's concerned for your safety and thinks having you at the palace would give us time to get to the bottom of this attack."

She was quiet a moment. "Our lives still aren't compatible. Are you afraid this is going to shatter one or both of us?"  
 It was his turn to be quiet, focusing far too hard on his pancakes. "Not as much as you being hurt on my account would."

"It isn't your job to protect me. You can't be held responsible for all the worlds' nut jobs. Or terrorist organizations, as the case may be."

He sighed and looked over at her. "They asked for vibranium. As soon as I was involved, the demands changed. They knew I would come for you."

"So kidnapping me was just bait for you?" He couldn't read her tone, or her face.

"It's possible they would have been content with the money they asked for. But I believe they would have known Tamara had no way of getting to your accounts. Vibranium was almost certainly the goal."

She sighed and shook her head. "Well aren't they stupid. As if they were going to get a country to give up some of it's most valuable and zealously guarded possession for the safety of one woman."

He studied her. "You are a woman I have loved for a decade. Do you really think metal is more important to me than that?"

She inhaled sharply. "I didn't mean it like that. I don't doubt you'd move heaven and earth for me. But you aren't the king. And your father has many more people's wellbeing to worry about than just his own family. A whole country and it's industry and finances and safety. You can't let the world's villains think this is a viable way to get vibrainium. Or the _very_ next thing they will do is stalk the teenagers you send to school or scientists you sent to study in the west." 

None of those students were the de facto princess of the nation. But she didn't seem like she was in a good place to hear that. "In any case. I would feel better if you came to Wakanda while our intelligence agency looked into this."

Monica rolled up a pancake and began eating it dry like some sort of pastry. "Okay," she said after eating a few bites. "Tamara is probably going to kill me, but okay."

Pleased beyond measure, he offered, "I could probably convince them to let her, Jay and the baby come, too. We could have a reunion."

She tilted her head. "You sure that's okay? I know how Wakandans feel about white people."

"Only one of those people is white and she's not a racist idiot. It should be fine."

She grinned at him. "Maybe I'll frame it as a working vacation."

"As I said, we can almost certainly find you a studio."

"For the moment I just need a notepad and a piano." She rolled up another pancake and pointed it at him. "You're grinning like there's a catch."

"Never. I'll call ahead and have a piano waiting."


	12. Chapter 12

Tamara was more excited than Monica expected. Though the kidnapping had clearly deeply shaken her. And she was used to following Monica around at this point; she'd spend a good half of her pregnancy with Ellie sleeping on a tour bus.

The plane he'd brought was tiny, more a fighter-jet than a transport. T'Challa flew it back home, and she chartered a Gulfstream to fly the rest of them as far as Kenya, where he'd then come pick them up.

The jet was small, but it did have a daybed of sorts in the back. Jay had crashed out on it, Ellie sprawled on his chest. She and Tamara sat up in the seats, talking in the dim light. "Maybe it will be some sort of strange long-distance thing. People have made all sorts of stuff work."

"Actors and other high profile famous people do it all the time," Tamara agreed. "It requires work, but it's doable."

"I admit, I thought you'd be more discouraging."

"Other then that first awful break up he's been nothing but kind to you, at least when you're together. You're happier with him than apart."

She fiddled with her panther necklace. The one she'd worn to the Grammy's hadn't been recovered, but she had a number of them. 

"I just. . . can't shake it. I honestly thought I was over him," she said, prompting Tamara to look at her necklace—a look she ignored. "But then he shows up like a literal superhero and the next thing I know it's like all the years have vanished."

"Not everyone gets their own personal knight in vibranium armor."

"I think it's as bone deep for him as it is for me."

"You guys do have that air of destined lovers about you. Not that I believe in that sort of thing," she added with a vague wave of her hand.

"Could still break my heart. Probably will." She sighed. "But it will be worth it while it lasts."

"Well as long as you're going into it with eyes open."

"I am. And I apologize in advance for any crying."

Tamara sighed dramatically. "I'll make sure to stock up on Kleenex."

She reached across the aisle and squeezed her hand. "You are still the best Best Friend a girl could ask for."

"I try. Though you are a full time job."

"Do I or do I not pay you extravagantly?" Though technically she didn't pay Tamara. She got a cut off the top, and the actual act of dispersement was handled by bean counters Tamara had hired.

"I do live rather comfortably," she said thoughtfully.

"There you go. I aim to make it worth your while."

"And now i get to see a country unviewed by Caucasian eyes. So there are unexpected perks."

"T'Challa said there have been _some_ , occasionally. They have some Dutch dude in jail for trying to steal vibranium, for example."

"I'll keep my sticky fingers to myself."

When they landed in Kenya, at the nearest airport to the Wakandan border, a helicopter was waiting for them. It had a pilot, two Dora Milaje and a gray-haired, bespectacled man who introduced himself as Moro. 

"His Highness has asked me to come meet you plane. If you will join me on board, we have refreshments while we wait for your luggage to be transferred."

"Thank you," Monica said. On board there were a variety of bottled beverages, though Ellie decided to pitch a tantrum at the lack of Apple Juice. It had been a very long flight, private jet or no.

Tamara tried valiantly to calm her down and convince her to try a water. One of the Dora Milaje produced a bottle of pink melon juice and managed to coax her not only into trying the juice, but trying to pronounce the Wakandan name for it.

"I have three little girls," she told Tamara as the other guard started pre-flight. "One of them would only eat flat bread and melon for six months. I thought she was going to get rickets."

"The equatorial sun probably helped," Monica said.

"Did you pack sunscreen?" Jay asked, like he'd just thought of it.

Tamara rolled her eyes. "Like a case. I didn't know if they'd have any, at least not Irish-worthy."

"We do have it, though the strong stuff is a medical item prescribed to people with skin conditions. We do occasionally have pale people born. What is the English word. . .Albino? That's probably what most people will assume you are."

"I suppose there's worse things," Tamara muttered. "You two should slap some on for the first few days, too. You can still burn and you're not used to this sun."

"I have never gotten a sunburn in my life," Jay replied. 

"You spend most of your life in Chicago," Tamara replied, and Monica looked out the window and turned them out. They liked to banter recreationally. Tamara was probably half right—Monica's skin was dark enough she thought she'd be fine as long as she didn't lay out in baby oil all day, but Jay's was significantly lighter. Plus it wasn't worth risking the level of whining that would undoubtedly ensue.

She'd seen many pictures of Wakanda over the years, but flying over it didn't quite do it justice. It looked like the Africa of mythos and Hollywood imagination. Lush green jungle threaded with mist. As they got closer to the capital she saw signs of civilization. Even the buildings seemed designed with respect for nature. Lots of glass and natural materials.

They landed on palace grounds and were met by T'Challa and his mother.

She was still intimidated by his parents, just a little, just enough she wasn't entirely sure of the level of formality expected. T'Challa hugged her like he hadn't seen her in years, lifting her right of her feet. So she supposed that settled that.

His mother reached out and gathered her into a hug as well. "I am so happy to see you safe," she said softly.

"Thank you," she said quietly. "Thank you for taking us in."

"Of course." After a tight squeeze, she stepped back. "We have rooms made up for you all and you are all invited to eat dinner with my husband and I tomorrow. We thought you would appreciate a day to settle."

"That sounds lovely," she replied, thinking that sounded like a room had been made for her, and not sure what she should make of that.

She greeted Tamara and Jay and cooed over Ellie, then T'Challa lead them inside the palace. "Not everyone speaks English," he said. "So if you need something let me or Moro know."

"Yeah, I don't know any worlds in Wakandan that are fit for mixed company," she said, then winced because she'd said that in front of his mother.

Who laughed out loud. "So you _have_ taught her a few words."

T'Challa ducked his head and rubbed his eyes.

There were actually plenty of completely normal words, like Yes and More, that would nonetheless sound dirty if she listed them out. "I hope to learn some civilized sentences while I am here."

"I will be happy to tutor you," the Queen told her, with a mischievous glint in her eye that reminded Monica of T'Challa.

"My sister is coming home," he said, probably in an attempt to change the topic. "That's how spooked my father is. She's been dying to meet you for years, and it is perhaps the only reason she's not madder than she is." 

Monica had also long wanted to meet Shuri. She almost had, a couple of years years back. Her tour had dates in the UK. At the time he was at Oxford for a Ph.D. (because he was the sort of person who casually got a Ph.D.), and he'd convinced her to take an afternoon and have coffee because his sister was visiting. She didn't think she could be alone with him, but a chaperone was manageable. Then an elderly relative had died, and they'd both ended up home in Wakanda when she came through. At the time it seemed for the best. "I will make every effort to be worth the trip."

"Oh, I'm sure you'll get along like a house afire. Just to make my life difficult."

"Well, then my job here is complete."

"I will leave you to get your friends settled," the Queen said. "I hope to see every one tomorrow at dinner." She kissed her son on the cheek and left.

T'Challa looked a little relieved she was gone. "Jay and Tamara, your rooms are in the guest wing, this way."

"Am I pretending to be in the guest wing, too?" Monica asked. "Like at my parents house when we were 18?"

"No, you have the room adjoining mine. We thought it would be good for you to have the option of your own space, should you need it."

"I appreciate that. Though I don't expect to sleep there. I couldn't sleep on the plane."

"The sitting room and bath will be open for your use," he said diplomatically. He took her hand as they hiked up the stairs to the guest wing. They got Jay and Tamara settled, and strong looking men were hauling in their bags. People with small children traveled with an enormous amount of stuff.

In the way now, she and T'Challa left to walk over to the palace's family quarters.

He opened a door revealing a bedroom larger than any apartment she had ever lived in. It spilled out onto a wide balcony, overlooking a jungle tangled cliff. There was a large bouquet of tropical flowers on a side table, and the corner of the bed was turned down. "Wow," she breathed.

Clearly pleased, he pointed to a door on the lefthand wall. "That leads to my chambers. Your closet and bath are over there." He gestured to the opposite wall.

"Can I see your room?"

"Of course." He lead her over to the door he'd indicated and pushed it open.  
 His room was about the same size, done in blues and dark greens. There were photographs hung in clusters on the wall and lining his massive dresser. A heavy wooden desk faced the view, cluttered with paperwork and a slim laptop.

A lot of the things in there she remembered from the room they'd shared long ago—including the mess. She perused his photographs; they'd been all over the apartment, and she recognized many of them.

"I've been informed that a future king should be tidier," he commented, leaning a shoulder on the wall near the windows. "But I've seen my father's side of the room and I think I'm doing just fine."

She came across a picture of them from Freshman year. Her in her Janet Jackson braids, the two of them grinning like idiots. "God, we were so young."

"Babies," he agreed. "Ready to take on the world."

She touched the frame. "I had no idea you still had this."

"Of course." He came up behind her. "Despite the ending, I have happy memories of that year."

"More sentimental than I would have expected is all." She turned and looked at him. His eyes drifted down to her necklace, and she added, "Never said I wasn't."

"We're both romantic fools," he said with a crooked grin.

God, the broken heart she was signing up for. But she reached her arms out for him anyway. With a sigh, he pulled her to him, kissing her. She felt safe when he held her, something that was in short supply lately. "Can we lay down? I'm so tired."

"Of course." He lifted her easily and carried her over to the big bed, settling her down before drawing the sheer netting closed and joining her. 

She sighed, and exhaustion tugged at her. "I'm safe here. Aren't I?"

"Completely and absolutely."

Monica trusted him, as much as she'd ever trusted anyone. So she closed her eyes and finally sleep came.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the posting gap. I've been super sick with a respiratory thing and wasn't capable of doing anything but lay on the couch and whine.

T'Challa stayed with Monica until he was sure she was fast asleep, then slipped out of bed. He left her a note in case she woke up without him, then went to check in with his assistant about some work that had been neglected in his absence. Investigators had been deployed to look into the Ten Rings and Monica's abduction.

When that was settled he went down to the kitchens for a snack, then took it back to his room to work at his desk until she woke. He didn't expect her to start screaming. He leapt out of his chair to find she'd gotten tangled in the bed drapes. Trying to untangle or wake her earned him a punch in the jaw.

Calling her name, he tugged the sheets away from her body, freeing her. "Monica, wake up. Wake up now."

She kicked at him, but then sat up, eyes finally opened. She breathed hard and shaky for a moment, then said, "Jesus, what is wrong with _screens_?"

He stared a moment, then laughed. "I have never had a complaint before."

"You bring a lot of women into this bed that aren't Wakandan?"

"I have not brought any women into this bed," he told her honestly.

Her inhalation was audible. "Really?"

"Really." He rubbed her back. "I don't want you to think I have been entirely celibate," he added in the interest of honesty. "But I don't make a habit of bringing women here."

She laughed a little. "Oh good. I certainly haven't. . ." She cleared her throat. "I mean, I like sex."

"So do I," he assured her. "Especially with you."

She traced her finger on his forearm. "That sounds like more fun than a nightmare."

Horribly tempted, he forced himself to offer, "Would you like a snack first? I brought you some fruit and cheese."

Her finger traveled further up his arm. "Later."

Conscience eased, he grinned and leaned in, kissing her.

They'd been without each other for a long time, so the 'honeymoon' behavior over the next few days was somewhat expected. There was a lot of sex. They surfaced for dinner with his family, and for his sister's arrival—she'd been working on a graduate degree at the London School of Economics. She and Monica did in fact hit it off.

He did notice eventually that sex also seemed to be how she dealt with nightmares, and avoided talking about painful topics. He was starting to wonder if he should worry about that.

After over a week of it, he decided it was time to broach the topic. "Have you considered talking to someone about what happened?"

It got him a sigh. "Not you, too."

"Is Tamara pestering you?" Because Tamara was a very good friend and Monica could not distract her with sex.

She hunched her shoulders defensively. "I told her the same as I'll tell you. I don't have anything to say."

He was quiet a moment. "I don't think that's healthy. Or true."

"You survived having to live in the jungle like Tarzan, I think I should be able to handle a couple days with some lunatics."

Maybe he should have teamed up with Tamara for a proper intervention. "I did that after a lifetime of training for it. You went from a Grammy party to being handcuffed to a cot. You thought you would be abused. Or killed. That leaves scars. And ignoring them causes festering, not healing."

She flinched. "I'm trying to forget it."

"Your nightmares haven't lessened," he said gently. "When it's mentioned you hunch as if expecting a blow. Forgetting is not working." After a pause, he added, "Let me find you someone to talk to. Try it. What will it hurt?"

"It could hurt a lot. It could hurt like acid on a wound." She looked up at him. "Is there anyone here who even speaks enough English?"

"Most of the professional class has some. But I was thinking more of finding someone who specializes in trauma. Possibly one who works with other famous people, who would sign an NDA to protect your secrets from the press."

"Someone from the outside?"

"As I'm unaware of an official royal shrink, yes, almost certainly."

"And they'd be allowed to come here?"

He hadn't spoken with his father, but his mother had gently inquired as to how Monica was coping. T'Challa was confident he could get her on board, and possibly Shuri as well. Baba had never turned all three of them down. "Yes."

She reached for his hand. "All right. I'll try."

Taking her hand, he lifted to kiss it. "Thank you. I'll look into finding you someone."

She reached out then, wrapping her arms around him and burying her face in the crook of his neck. It wasn't a come-on, she just held him. Or let him hold her. He rocked her, stroking her back and hair. "I love you," he said softly.

Her arms tightened. "I love you, too."

"I'll take care of you."

"I know," she replied, nestling a little closer. 

They sat in silence for a while. "What would you like to do today? Shopping? We could go on a drive in the jungle."

She chuckled. "We probably should go outside, shouldn't we?"

"It's a lovely country," he told her solemnly.

She kissed the underside of his jaw. "That sounds like fun."

"Excellent." He gave her a tight squeeze. "Get dressed, I'll go make arrangements."

The jungle that sprawled beyond the palace was a National Park, so it had trails to both drive and hike on. In the later afternoon he showed her some of his favorite spots in the capital. Their relationship had always been on her turf, to a certain degree. It was really nice to have her here.

They watched the sunset at an open air cafe, sipping coffee and sharing a dessert. "This was nice," he commented, for lack of other conversation.

"It's odd to be just. . . sitting here. You don't have any security—which, okay, you're _you_ so maybe it's not an issue. But back home, I couldn't go to the grocery store without paparazzi stalking me, fans asking for autographs, etc. Why aren't we mobbed?"

The Western reaction to famous people had always horrified him. "People do come up occasionally," he admitted. "And I imagine the reaction would be more apparent in a city other than the capital. But we go out to shop and eat on a fairly regular basis. It's not a novelty."

Monica stirred her coffee. "Maybe I will just stay here permanently."

"Wakanda is very seductive."

"I am noticing that, yeah." She raised her eyebrows. "Sun's going down. Wanna head home?"

"Yes, it's been a long day." He stood and offered her his hand.

"You okay, T?" she asked as they started walking.

He squeezed her hand a little, considering the question. "I'm sorry. Have I been distracted?"

"I see the weight you carry," she replied. "Even when nobody else does."

Which was one of the many reasons he loved her. Monica had never been fooled by his stoic prince routine. "There are some duties I have been neglecting since we arrived. Now that you are more settled and have seen some of the capital, I may need to get back to them."

She smiled at him, and put her head on his shoulder. "I'll be fine. You can go be a prince."

In the morning, he secured a meeting time with his father, so he could talk to him about finding and having someone come in Monica could talk to. As with bringing her here, he was surprised by the lack of pushback.

"They best of our psychologists still don't know anything of her culture, or speak her language truly fluently enough. Not for something like that. It would be too foreign an experience. Find someone, we'll figure it out."

"I confess," T'Challa said slowly. "I am oddly touched by how understanding you have been. Letting Monica and the others come here. And now this."

He sighed. "I have never kept a mistress," he said, a statement T'Challa found odd and a little ominous. "My father did. She and my mother got to be friends and took care of him together when he was old. It used to be custom to take them from the Dora Milaje, which at some point in the past was an actual unabashed harem."

T'Challa really wanted to think this was a non-sequitur but was pretty sure it wasn't. Though he currently had more pressing concerns. "Are you talking about Auntie Anara? Who used to give me and Shuri candy when we visited Grandpa?"

"If it helps, I was older than you when I finally figured it out."

"Did you completely ruin my innocence in an attempt to distract me? Or are you insinuating Monica is my mistress. Because that's not what the kids are calling it anymore."

"You can't marry her," he said gently. "I told you about Anara to tell you it doesn't have to be sordid or hidden. You don't have to give her up—regardless of what I said the last time we discussed this. But the next Queen needs to be Wakandan."

His first instinct, of course, was to argue. They were very good at arguing, he and his father. Had had any number of fights. It would almost certainly get him nowhere, of course, and might endanger Monica's continued stay, or Father's agreement to bring a psychiatrist here to help her. It was a pity, as T'Challa had several excellent points he could make. How it wasn't particularly fair to ask said hypothetical future queen to enter a loveless marriage. Perhaps with a footnote on how well that had worked for the British monarchy a generation ago. That he had no idea if Monica wanted to marry him, or if she'd be content with royal consort. That times were changing and public opinion was leaning towards opening their borders and culture to the rest of the world and having a Western queen would help that.

All of that and more he pushed down and responded, quite calmly, "I will take that under advisement."

"Thank you," he said. "The Intelligence briefing is at 4, would you like to sit in?"

"I would, yes. For now I will go ask Bahati to find me a therapist."

A week later, a team of operatives took out a Ten Rings cell. It wasn't a large one, but it sent the desired message that sideway attempts to steal vibranium would be dealt with as harshly as direct ones. They also located a therapist in the US who'd be willing to fly to Wakanda for a consult. There was someone well regarded in Hollywood power circles that Tamara had known of.

It was also a week later that his father came to see him in his office, and exceedingly rare event. T'Challa was on the phone when he strode in, Bahati hovering behind him making a "I'm not arguing with the King" apologetic hand gesture.

T'Challa waved at Bahati. "I'm sorry," he told the man at the visa office. "I cannot continue arguing with you, as the King needs my urgent attention. However, I hope that next time I call your office you have sufficiently removed the red tape needed to approve the request." He hung up without waiting for a response. "I was unaware that the head of the visa office outranked me, but based on our conversations. . ."

"Your mother has sent me to talk to you," he said without preamble. 

His brows went up. "About what?"

"She wants me to tell you that I am an ass. Your mother being the only person in this country who could say that to me."

"Mater has always been good at putting you in your place," T'Challa said diplomatically. "What are you being an ass about today?"

"Parenthood."

"Is this about our conversation regarding Monica?"

"Your mother threatened to make me call Queen Elizabeth and ask her how that sort of thing worked out for her family."

His mother had always been persuasive. "So you are revising your advice?"

"She suggested you would instead simply wait me out. American culture is rather lax on this front, you could just have a couple of illegitimate children and hope you outlived me and didn't generate some sort of messy succession crisis. I told her I would simply deny you the crown and live forever. She didn't find that funny." Baba had a great deal of trouble admitting he was wrong. T'Challa wasn't even sure he was doing so now, so much as explaining why Mater thought he was wrong. The wind was blowing his way, though, so he wasn't going to bring that up.

"My mother has always known me well," he said, essentially confirming what she'd suggested. "And I can be quite stubborn. Though Bast alone knows where I got such a trait."

"I am. . .clarifying my statement. She does not have to be born Wakandan. But she does have to become Wakandan."

T'Challa tilted his head. "Do we even have a citizenship process?"

"I believe it's my saying you're a citizen."

"That will make your decree easier to follow."

"But she will have to be here. Stay here. If she's going to be your wife, she can't be galavanting across the globe, being on television and giving concerts in stadiums."

That was probably a deal breaker, for both Monica and his father. But not unreasonable or surprising. "I understand," he said quietly.

"In the meantime she is welcome as you. . .girlfriend? I'm told that's the word."

T'Challa smiled. "It is, yes."

"All right," he said with a nod. "I will go tell your mother I apologized."

"I will corroborate your story if she comes by." Even though he had not, technically, actually apologized. The recanting, and coming to T'Challa to do it instead of issuing a summons, was about as close as he got.

"Thank you," Baba said on the way out.

He finished his work and gathered up the information on the doctor Bahati had found to show Monica.

She was out on their suite's balcony in the shade squinting at a book. He watched her a long moment, wondering what it would be like if she did stay. Coming home to her at night. Kids underfoot.

"You have your Matters of State face on," she commented. 

"It's been that sort of day," he told her, bending to kiss her when he reached her chair. "How was yours?"

"Good." She held up the book. "I'm learning Wakandan."

He grinned widely, far more delighted than he should be. "How's it coming?"

"It's not Spanish, but I'm determined."

"English is harder," he teased.

"So I've heard." She closed the book and put it down. "Want to go out for dinner? I might be able to order a glass of water."

"If you like. I do have a couple things to discuss."

She tucked her legs up from the end of the chaise lounge. "Sit."

He did so, pulling out the file. "This is the information on the psychiatrist that my assistant found." He held it out for her. "We're working on the visa paperwork, but I should be able to get her here within the week."

She flipped through it for a moment. "Thank you."

"You're quite welcome. It's a woman, which surprised me. But she's very highly recommended and Tamara had heard of her, through rumor mostly."

"I'm happy it's a woman," she said. "There are fears men can't really understand."

"A happy accident, I agree." He rubbed her calf idly. "My father has been. . . making pronouncements about our relationship. And my mother has been informing him he's an ass for doing so. I regret not being present for that thrashing, but I can imagine."

He could feel her tense, though she tried to keep her voice light when she asked, "Do I need to go sleep in the guest wing?"

"No. He's rather encouraging of our relationship. The word mistress was bandied about." She glared and he grinned. "That was the part Mater thrashed him for."

"So we can do this, then? Figure this out?"

"We can. With one caveat." He cleared his throat. "I know that we have never discussed marriage, but that is, generally speaking, the end goal of such relationships. If we were to wed you would become a citizen of Wakanda and the crowned princess. That would need to be your job. Not singing."

She looked at him for a long moment. "So you or my career? That's what you're telling me?"

He held up a hand. "I know how important your career is. I am not asking you to make the decision. We are free to continue on as we have been. You will have an open visa to visit as you like. I can try to come see you when our schedules permit. I was not under the impression you were eager to settle down anyway. But the fact of our lives is that I have a very busy career and so do you. We will both need to put effort in to making this work. People date for years without getting married."

She reached out for him. "I love you. And I am totally okay with tabling that topic for later. Let's get to know each other as adults. Make a lot of phone calls, scorch some hotel room sheets. See what happens."

He scooped her up into his lap. "That sounds like an excellent plan." And it did. They had been foolish college students together. Had taken their time to grow up into their own people. Taking time to have an adult relationship sounded very nice.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thus begins the events of Civil War and the home stretch for this story.

Dr. Yee, the therapist who came all this way to see her, was not at all what Monica expected. She short of pictured a stern white lady with gray hair and glasses, and possibly some sort of accent. Not a tiny asian woman in a wheelchair. 

But she was tremendously helpful, staying for a few weeks before making arrangements to continue therapy by phone or video. Monica loved her time in Wakanda, learning the language, meeting people, being shown the most interesting and beautiful places.

The eastern parts of the country were savannah, and in early summer she convinced T'Challa to take an actual leave-the-palace vacation so they could go on safari. Without saying it, they both seemed to understand that this time hiding away was coming to an end.

He knew the savannah like the back of his hand and they could sit for ages in a Jeep watching herds for by. Once they saw a cheetah laying out on a rock and T'Challa spent the afternoon regaling her with facts about big cats.

Offering to give up her life and stay was so very tempting. She didn't think she'd ever loved anything as fiercely has she loved him. It felt strangely inevitable. And yet. . . part of her was very sure that if she did that now, before she was ready, their older years would be full of of bitterness and resentment.

"We should make a habit out of this," she told him one night as they sat by the fire.

"Absolutely." His agreement was emphatic. "Yearly, perhaps."

"I like it," she said. "Every year, no matter what else is happening, we take a week and come be alone out here in the bush."

"It's a promise," he said solemnly.

"My new tour was supposed to start in July," she said hesitantly. "And I think I. . .I think I want to go."

He nodded, not looking particularly surprised. "Where do you go first?"

It felt good to get it out there. She'd been thinking about it for a while. "We were going to open in London."

"I will miss you," he said. "But I'm glad you're going back out. You should share your gift. And I know you love it."

She felt tears sting her eyes. "You ever want to come to any of the shows, I'll get you front row seats."

"I will let you know. I haven't seen you perform in ages."

She nodded, and took a steadying breath. "Okay." Another breath and she said, "And I'm happy to sing for you any time."

He leaned back and gestured. "What about now?"

"You want me to sing for you here? In the middle of nowhere?"

"Why not? Exclusive audience."

It made her smile. He could always make her smile. She stood and straightened her shirt. "Any requests?"

"What's that one you used to do at clubs? About the train?"

She watched him in the flickering light. "Midnight Train to Georgia? The one that your panther story made me think of?"

"That one, yes. I always liked that."

So she sung him his song, sliding closer to him, until she got close enough to sit in his lap. She sung the last lines barely above a whisper, like a lullaby. When she was finished, he kissed her, slow and deep, rocking her a little. "Beautiful," he murmured.

Tamara had a devil of a time getting the licensing rights sorted out, but from then on, she sung that song at every single on of her concerts.

Concerned for her security, and probably T'Challa's sanity, she had been given her very own Dora Milaje, a lovely and terrifying woman named Oni. She was Monica's bodyguard, and supervised her now copious security. 

She toured, she made music, she rubbed elbows in Hollywood. Tamara and Jay had a couple more kids. Monica and T'Challa saw each other whenever they could, and she went back every year for their safari. It wasn't enough, and neither of them were happy, but it was the best they could do for the moment.

When aliens fell out of the sky and attacked New York, Oni insisted they go back to Wakanda for a little while for safety's sake. She had a whole summer, that year. Secret government agencies collapsed, different aliens tried to rip up London, and a crazed robot exploded a city with a huge amount of stolen vibranium.

The last one she watched coverage about on TV from a hotel room in Hong Kong, on the phone listening to T'Challa sound as rattled as she'd ever heard him.

"The advisors are at war with each other. I thought there was going to be a fist fight. Half of them want to completely seal the borders; even I couldn't leave. The other half think this is a sign we can no longer hide from the west."

"What do you think?" she asked, lifting the remote and muting the sound of a reporter asking stupid questions of a dusty-looking Steve Rogers.

"Clearly I don't want to be on house arrest in my country. But I think we're long past time joining the rest of the world." He sighed and she could hear fabric rustling. He was probably sitting on his bed. She'd gotten really good at recognizing his sounds. "Vibranium is becoming a holy grail. I'm not eager to be the new Holy Land, with its centuries of war."

"If one of the major modern powers decided to come after you. . ." She moved the phone to her other shoulder. "I'm not saying you couldn't defend yourselves, but it wouldn't be as easy as knocking back the Belgians was a century ago."

There was a pause. "It would be doable, depending on how serious they took it. But it would be ugly and hurt our neighboring countries far more than anyone else. It's not ideal."

"You are a master of understatement, T. Where's the King on this?"

"Listening to his advisors and me. And my mother. He's keeping his own council now. But he's always leaned towards opening ties to the West, so we'll see."

She left a moment of silence before asking, "Do you need me?"

"I would like to see you, always. But I imagine travel will be difficult for the next few days."

"Yeah," she said softly. "I hate this. I want to give you a hug."

"I know. Next time we see each other I'll consider the first hug in honor of this."

"I miss you," she whispered. "So much."

"We're due for our safari soon."

It was almost summer. "I will have Ayesha call Bahati and they can hammer it out." Something she really couldn't believe her life was at my-people-call-your-people.

"I will look forward to it," he told her. "Especially in the next few days, I imagine."

"You can call me anytime. Anytime," she repeated, wishing again she could be there.

"I know. I will if I need to hear your voice. I promise."

Their safari was a little late that year, because of schedules, but it was desperately needed by both of them. They didn't talk much, and spent a lot of time in their tent. Sometimes it was nice just to unwind. Take a break from the world.

"You'll have to come back in the fall," he told her the last night. "Shuri is getting married."

She shifted to squint at him in the blackness. There was little moon tonight. "I will absolutely come back for that."

"My mother is already practically vibrating at the prospect of grandchildren. I think she's given up on me."

His tone was light, but Monica found herself saying, "I'm sorry."

He shifted a little to look at her. "I didn't intend to make you feel bad."

"I know," she replied, because she did. "But it is also true that if I'd been a bored engineer or a failing bar singer when you rescued me, I'd have never left and we'd probably be on our second kid right now."

"That's not the life we have," he said sounding serene. "I enjoy the one we do have."

She snuggled against him. "Sometimes you're like my own personal Yoda."

There was a rather heavy silence. "The little green man in the space movie?"

"It's not the 'space movie', it's Star Wars. But yes. You often reply with calm, wise things. When were younger they were much more frequently oddly phrased, like Yoda, but your English has gotten much better in the intervening decade and a half."

"Practice is useful. You, people I meet for work."

She kissed his shoulder. "So you're happy? As we are?"

"I am. I would like to see you more often, of course. But I think we're making the best of the circumstances we have." He kissed the top of her head. "It's enough."

Eventually, though, Monica began to think that it wasn't. Maybe it was her biological clock ticking. Her brother had just had a baby. Or maybe it was just. . .time. When she went for Shuri's wedding, she seriously considered never coming back. She didn't tell him that, and it was probably for the best. He spent most of the time telling her about how busy he would be. The King had chosen the path of openness, of learning to work with the outside world instead of hiding from it. They would begin with scientific and technological outreach and cooperation, a project T'Challa had been put in charge of.

She was on the road, he was on the road, they met up in hotel rooms for little more than sex and murmured words. Their assistants were having trouble finding a week in common for the safari. It felt like they were drifting. She was terrified, just a little, that they'd had and missed some sort of window. That it might be too late.

When the Avengers accidentally blew up a Wakandan scientific team in Nigeria, she canceled a day's worth of recording sessions for her new album specifically because she knew he'd need to talk. Every time she called, though, she only got as far as Bahati. Eventually he called back the next day, but even then he was rushed and distracted, and she assured him they could talk when he had more time. That became a pattern.

She found out King T'Chaka was actually _leaving_ Wakanda for a special UN meeting in Vienna about the Avengers from the damn TV news.

"I could be there when he arrives," she told Tamara over a soothing bowl of ice cream. "But at this point I'm not—I mean, maybe I should wait for him to ask."

"At least wait until the summit is over. He's gonna be surrounded by people and having to chase after his dad."

She sighed. "You know, there was a time when that would have caused him specifically to want me there."

"Maybe when Wakanda was a big 'ol question mark in the African Savannah. But they're entering the world now. You show up there and the headline stops being about the summit and starts being 'Wakandan Prince Banging it with Grammy Winning Singer.'"

"I wonder if that's what's been going on. The math has changed." She shrugged with the most feigned casualness she'd ever manufactured.

Tamara rolled her eyes, obviously seeing right through her. "When you do get a hold of him you need to have a conversation about how and when you want to announce yourselves."

She was having trouble shaking the feeling maybe he. . .didn't. It was crazy, but it was there. "We need to have a conversation full stop."

"Well, yes obviously. But if you want my opinion, you're reading too much into this."

"It's been weird lately," she said quietly. "Even before this."

"I know, but this is T'Challa. He's gonna tell you if his feelings have changed. He's not going to ghost you. He's probably only comfortable acting like this because he thinks you're so solid."

"I hope so." That was the best Tamara was going to get. "It still hurts."

"I know." Sympathy was better. Tamara was always a good shoulder.

He didn't call and ask her to come, so she went about her business over the next few days, catching bits on the news about various delegations traveling to this massive meeting. She sent him a text wishing him good luck with his big thing, and then went to sleep.

The clock beside her bed displayed 4:12 AM when her ringing phone woke her. It was new and had just the generic ringtone, but only one person who'd be calling her at this hour. She pulled it to her ear without opening her eyes again. "Timezones, T, timezones."

Instead she got Tamara's voice, shaky enough to jerk her completely awake. "Monica, turn on the news."

When you loved someone who was heir to a throne, that was not a benign statement. She sat up, scrambling on the nightstand for the remote. "What happened?"

"There was a bomb. At the summit." Monica got the TV on and found footage of a smoking building. "They're saying T'Chaka is dead."

She crawled to the end of the bed. The ticker on the bottom said "unspecified additional casualties", whatever the hell that meant. She felt three different kinds of sick. "My God," she breathed, putting a hand over her mouth.

"I've tried to make some calls but no one knows anything. I think I saw T'Challa in the background of one of the shots, but if you have his mom or sister's number you should try."

There was a knock on her door that made her jump. But she was pretty sure she knew who it was—thanks to her security system there were only two people it _could_ be, and she was on the phone with the other one. "Let me call you back."

She put the phone down and opened up the door to find Oni on the other side. There were tears in the other woman's eyes, but Monica knew enough about the Dora Milaje to expect she'd probably commit some sort of Wakandan seppuku if they were acknowledged. Then she thought of her intensely stoic love, and also how this woman would literally take a bullet for her. "Even warriors need hugs sometimes," she said as she did just that.

Oni held her like she might shatter, but did lean her head on Monica's shoulder for a moment. "Thank you," she said when they parted. "I take it you've seen the news?"

"Yes, just now," she gestured at the TV.

She nodded. "I spoke with my commander. There is. . . chaos. She has confirmed the King is dead. We have no information as to the whereabouts of the King at the moment, but we know he survived."

It took her a moment to parse the strange statement. T'Challa was king now. She ached for him right then. "I need to go there."

The other woman nodded, unsurprised. "I do not know the status of flights. I will make some calls and see how close we can get."

"Thank you." When Oni went off, she tried to call T'Challa, but just got his voicemail. She wasn't surprised. She sent him a text anyway, telling him she loved him and hoped he was safe.

She was watching the media coverage when Oni returned. "I've talked to the security team in Vienna. Flights in are grounded there, but there are surrounding airports. At the moment, the Wakandan borders and skies are closed as a security measure. The bomber has been identified, and the King has gone in persuit."

Monica closed her eyes and took a breath through her nose. "Of course he has."

"I did not get the impression it was an authorized mission," Oni said diplomatically.

Neither was the incursion into Mexico to rescue her. She took another nose breath, then said, "If I can't go to Wakanda to wait for him, I might as well go to Europe, at least until we have more information." Whatever bumps might have been going on, he'd need her now. She knew that in her bones.

"I will get us as close as possible." She left to do just that and Monica went back to watching the television.

T'Challa's mother, of all people called her. "I'm sure you've seen the news," she said after Monica expressed her condolences. "But I wanted to make sure you knew my son was alive."

"Thank you," she said, her voice cracking one the end, leading to stretch of silence in which they were both clearly crying. When she composed herself again, she said, "I know the borders are closed. But can I. . ."

"Come home?"

Didn't that just distill it all down, right there? But it also sounded absolutely correct. "Yes."

"Of course, you can. I will send a plane myself."

She closed her eyes. "Thank you. Thank you."

"Anything. I will see you soon. We can make a list of all the things we want to yell at Lala for."


	15. Chapter 15

Vengeance was toxic. But it was useful, because it was consuming. In its void, T'Challa focused on the logistics of the task ahead. He'd offered Rogers and Barnes sanctuary, an impulsive but necessary action. They had a plane, but they couldn't just fly it down there—if they didn't get shot down on the way they certainly would at the border. Wakanda has a sophisticated energy shield system that, if up, would trigger an armed response if breached by a foreign craft. Even if T'Challa called ahead. So instead, he had to stuff the two of them, plus one unconscious, gagged, and hogtied villain, in a plane meant to hold two people. 

Once they managed to get off the ground, he put a call in to the JTTT in Berlin to tell them he had Zemo and was dropping him off.

He wanted to just literally drop him out on the tarmac, but they hassled him into giving a full report while Rogers and Barnes hid in the back of his jet in two now-empty weapons containers. Diplomatic immunity and the Wakandan flag on the plane saved him from any sort of investigation into his claim that he hadn't even seen Rogers and Barnes.

"If you'll excuse me," he said finally. "My country has been without a leader for far too long. I need to go home and see to my father's funeral arrangements."

Funeral, apparently, was the magic word, and they let him get back on his plane. As he took off, and pointed the jet south, he felt as exhausted as he ever had in his life. Rogers offered to take a turn flying, but T'Challa said no. If he wasn't busy, he'd have to think.

When they got close he radioed in to warn them so he didn't get shot down. He imagined his mother might be upset enough to do it out of spite.

His chest ached when he thought of her. He had rather hoped avenging his father would make seeing her easier. Now he was bringing her nothing but a couple of strays in need of a home. He should have known there were no simple answers in life. His father would have known that.

He set the plane down on palace grounds. "Welcome to Wakanda, gentlemen."

It was very late, so he'd called to have staff and security meet the plane. They'd show the two of them to their rooms, and everything else could be sorted out in the morning. His mother would be asleep, so that also could be handled in the morning.

"Thank you for this," Rogers was saying, and T'Challa just nodded as he hit the button to open the door in front to of the wing. They had to climb out before he could.

Beside the knot of staff he'd requested, Monica stood on the tarmac.

A thousand emotions flickered through him. Surprise and gratitude being near the top. They had been having trouble connecting and he hadn't even called her after his father - To tell her he was alive. And still, somehow, she was here, when he needed her most.

Truly, he had never loved anyone the way he loved her.

He crossed the black top in a few strides and scooped her up into a hug. She wrapped her arms around his neck, and in an echo of the time he'd rescued her, she whispered, "I got you."

"I'm so sorry. I should have called you."

"It's okay," she told him. He knew it wasn't. But she was here, and she was holding him, the world that had pitched and heaved on him in the last couple of days seemed to settle, just for a moment.

"I am very happy to see you," he said, in what was almost certainly the understatement of his life.

She gave a shuddery breath. "Me too."

Around them, the staff members were following the instructions they'd been giving, leading Barnes and Rogers into the palace and giving them their privacy. A couple of Dora Milaje lingered not far off, hanging back out of an abundance of caution.

Carefully setting Monica on he feet he said, "I could use a shower. Then I will tell you about my last few days and you can have first shot at telling me what an ass I am."

"Okay," she said. She framed his face in her hands, like she wanted to make sure he was real and alive. "Okay."

"Okay," he repeated. Then he leaned in and kissed her tenderly. Now, he was home.

She held his hand as they went inside. She took him to his room, where she'd clearly been staying. "Take your gear off," she said. "I'll go get the water warm."

He nodded, suddenly tired down to his bones. "Thank you."

Hot steam billowed from the bathroom by the time he'd stripped down. "How about I get some food brought up while you shower?"

Pausing to wrap an arm around her, he kissed her temple. "However much they suggest bringing, double it."

"After all these years, I know how to feed you." She squeezed him. "Go."

He kissed her again and released her to go shower. Hot water was, on occasion, life changing. He scrubbed every inch of himself, washing away the last few days and warming himself from the chill of Siberia.

When he got out, he found she'd laid out a tunic and pants for him and he gratefully slipped them on before going back into the bedroom.

There was noise in the sitting room, and he went out to see a veritable buffet being set up. The two men from the kitchen were dressed all in white. Wakanda didn't have formal mourning dress requirements, but everyone did it anyway. Including Monica, he noticed, who was wearing entirely Wakandan clothing. He expected to see a sea of white everywhere for a while now. 

"Thank you," he said to the waiters. They both nodded in respect, fidgeted a few things into place, and took their leave.

He gestured to the food. "Please join me."

"I ordered myself a snack. But it is the middle of the night, so I'm not nearly as hungry as you." She picked up her pastry and sat at the table, waiting for him to load his plate and sit beside her. He did so, digging into the food like a starving man. He didn't actually remember the last time he'd had a full meal, just snacks and energy bars. This was delicious. He hoped someone had thought to send food to the other men.

She didn't say anything while he ate, just gently rubbing his leg. When he finally paused, he smiled at her, "Thank you."

"Your mother called me," she said. "After I saw the news, to tell me you were alive."

His shoulder slumped. "I'm sorry." He had a feeling he would be saying that a lot in the next few days. "I should have called you."

"Honey, don't." She reached to rub his back. "Your Dad just died and you had to watch. Less traumatic grief has made people do worse things."

"Like go on a self destructive quest for vengeance?"

"You caught the bad guy, didn't you? Maybe you didn't rip him open with your claws, but he is going to spend the rest of his life in a windowless box."

"Yes. Though I wasted much time chasing the wrong man. And now he and others are irreparably damaged." He sipped some of his wine but it soured his stomach. "In the end, I believe the bad guy won. And all I can do is gather up the pieces as best I can."

She rubbed the back of his neck. "I'm so sorry. For everything."

He sighed, leaning into the touch. "I'm very glad you're here."

"You have shown up out of nowhere when I needed you more than once."

That made him smile. "That's true. You didn't have to fight terrorists." He lifted his head. "Did you?"

She chuckled. "No. Your mother sent a plane for me, flew me right here." She began picking up the plates, taking them over to the table so they'd be easier for the staff to collect. "Shuri and I have been helping get the funeral arrangements underway. Your mother's not in much of a place to handle advisors squabbling about protocol. I've been trying not to overburden Shuri, either. Last thing she needs is stress." His sister was about to have a baby. The long awaited grandchild Baba would never get to see. Out of nowhere he felt tears sting his eyes. She suddenly was next to him again, wrapping her arms around him like a blanket.

For the first time since his father died he permitted himself the luxury of tears. Hidden away here with only Monica it felt safe and long past due. When the tears had passed he lifted his head and sucked in a shuddery breath, swiping at his eyes. Monica produced a hanky from somewhere and he dried them properly. "I hope you've left me something to do. I'll be at loose ends without an occupation."

"You have a country to run," she said gently.

"Yes." He kissed her shoulder and gathered her up to him. "Whether I'm ready or not."

She rubbed his back. "The rest is being handled. I drafted M'Bata into helping me." That was Shuri's husband. "Making arrangements, chasing details and smoothing everything out is the province of the in-laws." He wondered if she was just using a convenient term, or if she was staking a claim on her place in his life. 

"Thank you," he said. "How long can you stay?"

"As long as you need me," she replied immediately.

He leaned back to look at her. "That long?"

"I can't say I know how long it will be, it's kind of up to you."

This was not the time to have this conversation. He was exhausted. She probably was too. She was almost certainly angry with him. But he couldn't help it. "What if it's forever?"

She watched him a long moment. "Then that's how long it will be."

He sucked him a breath and cupped her face in his hands. He studied her a moment, then drew her in for a kiss. She held on tight, and they just kissed for a bit. She lifted her head to whisper, "How about we get some sleep?"

"That sounds great," he said, shifting her so they could stand. "I'm sure tomorrow will be busy."

They went into the bedroom and shut the door. She closed all the drapes, probably intending for them to sleep in. He had no idea the time, so it was probably a good idea. She took off her dress and tossed it at the nearest chair before climbing under the covers and tucking herself against him. Just the feel of her skin against his was amazing. They'd been apart too long. 

He sighed deeply, holding her close. "Sleep well, Monica."

She kissed his jaw. "I love you."

"I love you, too. Very much."

*

Monica slept better than she had in a while. Nobody disturbed them, the blackout drapes were up, so she had no idea that time it was when she woke. She stirred a little, and T'Challa's arm tightened around her waist. She stoked his wrist. "Good morning." 

"Hrmmm." He grumbled a little and stirred. "Hello."

She rolled over so she could kiss him. It was a shitty time, but it was so nice to wake up next to him. "Hi."

"I sleep better with you near me."

"Me too," she replied. She looked up at him. "We're going to have to face the day soon."

"I know. I'm sure there are a great many meetings waiting for me."

She let her hand wander down his chest. "Though I'm sure we could find some excuse not to get out of bed quite yet." She phrased it carefully. He might not be in the mood. His father had just died, and he'd had a series of brutal fights. But it was also their most reliable form of connection, a way to sort things and share their feelings without having to dig up the words.

He sighed heavily. "I can't. It is our custom to refrain from such activities during the time between a death and burial."

Her hand stilled. She wished someone had told her that. "Ah. Sorry."

"I'm the one who's sorry. I'm sure you were looking forward to a more positive reunion." He kissed her. "I will make up for it when I can."

"You can worry about me later," she told him, because they both knew there was a serious conversation coming. "This week, I'm here to take care of you."

He smiled a little crookedly. "I'm not very good at letting people take care of me."

"You're going to have to learn, because you're stuck with me."

Stroking her hair off her face, the smile turned soft and fond. "I like that sound of that."

"Come on," she said. "Let's get you some breakfast."

"Yes. And after that would you be interested in meeting Captain America?"

"I would love to meet Captain America," she said, rolling over to get out of bed. "Does he have the shield?"

"He does not. He left it behind after his last fight." He stood himself, walking to his closet to find appropriate clothes. 

She got dressed, and untied the scarf around her hair, carefully taking down the twists she'd put in to protect it over night. By the time she was done getting it presentable, he was dressed and opening the windows. It was so bright it was probably the middle of the day. So lunch, maybe.

"I'll need to see my mother and sister, too," he commented, though he sounded like he was dreading it. 

"They are as eager to see you as I was. Though perhaps not in quite so accommodating moods."

"You might get to learn some new Wakandan words."

"Always fun," she replied. Her Wakandan was decently fluent at this point. "You need me to come hold your hand?"

"I want to say yes, but it might be best done in private. I have a lot to answer for. For both of them." He paused suddenly, as if something had occurred to him. "Did Tamara and her family come?"

"No, just Oni and I came. The borders were closed to all outsiders, I didn't think bringing extra people would be a good idea." 

"You could send for them, if you want. I know Tamara is a source of comfort for you. And my father liked Jay."

He sounded so sad when he said that. She imagined everyday conversation was going to ache for a long time. "If it's all right with the rest of your family, then I will extend an offer."

"That seems fair." He kissed her forehead, then offered her his arm. "Come. A hearty meal will make the rest of the day easier to face."

After breakfast, he introduced her to Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes. They were very nice. Steve professed to be a fan of her music, and delightfully Bucky had _no_ idea who she was. That hadn't happened in years.

"I have to meet with my family," T'Challa told the other men. "When I'm done we can sit down and discuss next steps for you both."

"Thank you," Steve said, shaking his hand.

Monica walked T'Challa to the entrance to his parents' rooms, where the family was meeting. She gave him a kiss. "I'll be in our room when you're done."

"Thank you. I will ask how they feel about Tamara coming."

"It's all right if they say no. This is a very difficult time and I don't want to put anything on your mother right now."

He nodded and kissed her again. "I won't press. I'll see you soon."

Once he was gone, she went back to her room. She thought about calling Tamara, but it was the middle of the night in California. She did send an email telling her she thought she'd be in Wakanda for a while, and to clear any commitments. 

Her phone rang a minute later. "I was up with the baby."

Monica laughed. "Convenient. I take it you got my email?"

"I did. Did T finally show up?"

"He did. He was obviously pretty messed up, but seems back to his steady self this morning, for better or for worse." She sighed. "Last night he kind of asked me to stay and I may have agreed."

"Stay as in. . . stay?"

"Yeah. I just. . . I want kids. I want him. More than I want any more Grammys." It sounded so simple once she said it.

"Well." Tamara was quiet a moment. "It's about time."

She let out a little laugh. "That's not what I expected you to day."

"What, you want me to talk you out of it?"

"No. I don't know. It feels very old fashioned. And we still have stuff to sort out."

"You will. It's worth it. Being with someone you love, who makes you happy, is worth it."

"He does. Make me happy." Monica took a shuddery breath. The look on his face when he'd seen her, the way that he held her, washed away any doubts she might have had about his feelings for her. "I'll keep you posted how it all shakes out. And then we can figure out what's next."

"All right. I'll hold down the fort. Give T and his family our condolences."

"I will. Thank you. Tickle the girls for me."

"Of course. Take care of yourself. Bye Mon."

Later tonight, she'd call her family and explain that it might be a while before she saw them. That, in truth, she was fine with. After her call, she found a book and went out to sit on the balcony for a while. She spent more time staring at the jungle beyond than actually reading.

A little over an hour later the door opened and T'Challa came out, looking tired but otherwise all right. "I have not been excommunicated. It is a good day."

"I don't see any visible bruises or lacerations, either," she commented.

"There was mostly a lot of crying. Some recriminations. They're both very glad you came. I think you're definitely the favorite right now. They said it's fine if you want to invite Tamara and Jay and the kids. Shuri wishes Tamara had been here all along to handle planning."

"I talked to her today. I didn't mention that part, just in case. But she's very encouraging of. . ." She stumbled, not sure if last night was something they wanted to talk about right now. "Of us."

He smiled and sank down to sit at the end of her chaise lounge. "I'm never quite sure if she approves of me or wants to stab me. It's good to have confirmation."

"She told me love is worth it. Whatever happens."

"I believe that. I always have."

"Good," she replied. "Then we'll get through the next couple of days, and then we'll figure us out."

"Agreed." He rubbed her leg lightly. "My mother and sister and I have decided not to do a formal coronation. Given the means of my father's death it seemed wrong. We will have a small one with some of his advisors as witness and next year throw a large celebration. Perhaps for his birthday so as not to linger on the death."

"That sounds nice," she said. "Give the country a chance to grieve."

"Yes. And I need to get things done behind closed doors. Assemble my advisory staff. Continue figuring out our place in the world. Hide what I imagine will be a growing number of wanted criminals."

She raised her eyebrows. "A growing number?"

He sighed deeply. "I spoke to Rogers and Barnes after my family. The Captain would like to retrieve the members of his team that were left behind in Berlin. Some of them are capable of hiding themselves, but others will need asylum. He offered to find another way, but my conscience said otherwise."

"Well, that certainly makes me feel better about inviting Tamara."

"My caveat is that they must make themselves useful, which he deemed perfectly fair."

"I think you're doing the right thing," she said. "You'd be in the joint with them if you weren't, you know, ruler of a sovereign nation."

He inclined his head. "That was my logic as well." He looked out at the jungle, hand still on her leg. "And they are good people, who tried to do the right thing at great cost to themselves. The world needs more of that."

She reached up to stroke his cheek, feeling more proud of him than she could say. "You're going to be such a good king."

Smiling faintly, he kissed her palm. "I will surround myself with people who tell me if I'm not."

"You don't think after all these years I won't call you on your shit? Don't take the fact that I've chosen not to do so under these very particular circumstances as evidence of a pattern."

The smile spread into a grin. "No, I was including you in that group."

"Good," she said emphatically.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas everyone! Thank you for reading our stuff and all your lovely comments. We appreciate all of you and hope you have a joyful and peaceful holiday. To those not celebrating, have a great Sunday!

The next week was busy. Funeral plans and matters of state. Monica didn't see very much of him. But every night, no matter how late, he would crawl into bed, wrap his arms around her, and tell her he loved her. Bucky chose to be refrozen while they figured out his brain, and Steve left a few days later to go rescue his friends. 

Tamara and her family flew in for the funeral, which was particularly nice as it provided Monica someone to sit with. The advisors had been unanimous that a State Funeral was not the time to make a very public statement about the new king's relationship, which sitting her with the family would do. She absolutely completely understood. It still stung anyway, just a little bit. All she could do was sit in the crowd and watch. He had his stoic mask on again.

Afterwards he recorded a public address to the nation and they retired to the family quarters for a nice dinner. Tamara and Jay were invited, which they were both touched by, and since it was private Monica got to sit next to T'Challa. He held her hand under the table for most of the meal. 

It was much more like the sort of wake you'd see back home in the states. Family telling stories and sharing memories. Everyone made excuses to turn in early after. Shuri was as tired as someone that pregnant usually was, Tamara and Jay had small, jet lagged children, and everyone else was just worn out and peopled out. Monica and T'Challa were the last. The Queen hugged them both before she went to bed, murmuring something to her son that made him smile.

He drew her hand through his as they walked. "I am not suggesting we discuss it now, but we will need to decide how we make the announcement we're together."

"Why did you bring it up if you didn't want to discuss it?"

"It was on my mind. And I thought you might like a chance to think about it before I spring the topic on you."

"Well, the problems are mostly on your end. I assure you, telling my fans I've taken up with an African King will only raise their opinion of me."

He laughed. "We will need to wait a respectable amount of time. And I know you and I need to figure out how we're going to manage our future. But I want to announce it. I'd like the world to know. This is the last time you will sit separate from me."

"It was all right," she said. "I understood."

"I know you understood. And I can never thank you enough for how wonderful you've been this week. But it wasn't all right. I wanted you with me."

They reached their door, and she opened it to pull him inside. She hadn't noticed until just now how exhausted he looked. So she reached up and wrapped her arms around him. "I'm sorry."  
 He wrapped his arms around her and lifted her off her feet. "It's all right. It's over now. Tomorrow will be a new day."

She nuzzled against his neck. "Come to bed."

"Yes, dear."

He carried her as far as the side of the bed and set her down. She tipped her head back and looked up at him. "Do you want to sleep, or. . ."

He grinned. "I recall promising to make your patience worth your while."

She kissed him. "Seemed polite to ask before yanking off your pants. It was a long day."

"Making love to you seems like a rather nice end to it."

She deftly undid the buttons of his shirt, not saying anything until she pushed the linen off his shoulders. "I missed you," she said as she bent to kiss his chest.

He sighed, slumping a little. Spearing his fingers into her hair, he murmured, "I missed you too."

"Careful," she replied. This man wreaked all kinds of havoc on her hair, and she always let him. Her dress was a halter, and she reach behind her neck to untie it. It slid straight to the floor, leaving her in just a underwear and a strapless bra.

This sigh was far more appreciative than tired. T'Challa trailed kissed along her throat, big hands stroking her skin before sliding up her back and unfastening the bra. He peeled it away and she leaned forward, pressing her breasts against his chest. It wasn't just the sex she missed, it was the connection. The feel of her lover's skin against hers. No amount of phone calls could ever make up for that.

He lifted her and set her back on the bed. Then he explored her, with hands an mouth, as if he had never seen her before. As if every part of her was new. She was gasping and arching by the time he returned to her mouth, kissing her deeply. "Please," she whispered against his mouth, feeling desperate enough to beg. "Please, please." He hitched up one of her legs and thrust inside her. The cry wrenched from her was high and sharp. It felt that good.

His groan was a sound of utter contentment, right from his soul. Catching her mouth in a searing kiss, he slid out, all but leaving her, before driving into her again. She scored her nails down his back. "That," she told him when the kiss broke so they could gasp for air. She sucked his lower lip for emphasis. "More." He obeyed, giving her exactly what she wanted. Hard and deep and _them_.

When she got close he slid a hand between them to stroke her where they joined. The world exploded, nothing surviving or existing but this and them and the hot scorch of pleasure. She held on and just let it take her. God, she loved this man.

After driving hard and fast for a few heartbeats he buried himself deep and shuddered, clutching her to him. 

She held him just as tight, rubbing his back as they drifted back down together. He gave her a little squeeze, rolling them so they were on their sides. "I did miss you," he murmured.

She reached up to stroke his jaw. "Probably as much as I missed you. I missed this. I missed your voice."

"I missed your scent. Waking up beside you. Watching you fuss with your hair before going to sleep."

"You do terrible, terrible things to my hair," she replied.

"Maybe because I love watching you fuss."

"That's terrible," she said, and then she leaned over to kiss him. "I love you anyway."

He chuckled, the sound rumbling in her chest. "I love you, too."

She tucked herself a little closer, listening to the sound of his heartbeat. She didn't know how this was going to work, but she knew she didn't want to leave again. He was her home.

*

T'Challa woke in the morning feeling better than he had since before his father died. Naked and tangled up with the love of his life. They'd fallen asleep like that, and she'd probably make a face at him when she realized she hadn't fixed her hair. The amount of worry and work that Monica's seemed to require told him a lot about why his mother and sister kept theirs as short as his. 

But he loved it on her anyway. 

He bent and kissed her shoulder. She stirred a little and he kissed her cheek. "What do you say to breakfast in bed?"

"Sounds like you're sucking up, but I'll take it," she replied without opening her eyes.

"Maybe I just feel lazy." He kissed her shoulder again and got up, tugging on pants before picking up the phone to call the kitchen. She rolled over onto her stomach, taking up the whole bed. All the had was a sheet, which was barely covering her. It was so distracting he had no idea what he ordered for breakfast.

They would set it up in the sitting room without him having to let them in, so he rejoined her in bed. "Sleep well?"

"Really well." When he rubbed her back she arched unto the touch like a cat. "You?"

"Far better than I expected to," he admitted. "You soothe me."

She grinned at him. "The sex probably helped, too."

"It usually does." He rubbed her back some more. "Perhaps we can relax a little today. Take a breath after the last week."

His hand wandered a little lower, causing her to close her eyes and make a low sound in her throat. "You keep doing that and it isn't going to be very relaxing."

"There are many ways to relax."

She grinned, and turned over to reach for him. They ate their breakfast cold.

After that, they took a couple of days to just. . .be. His father had had an adamant opposition to the very hectic pace common in the rest of the developed world, and T'Challa had every intention of being the same. It helped that they, as a society, had higher priorities than the pursuit of profit. Everybody having a long weekend after the King's funeral seemed perfectly natural. Matters of State could wait.

They spent some of it in bed. They spent a lot of it with the family. It was the sort of thing that soothed the soul.

One evening they were sitting out on the big shaded stone patio the was off his mother's living room. Torches burned and birds sang in the jungle beyond as the sun set. There was a big marimba out there that at some point over the years Monica had learned how to play. He watched her strike the keys with the mallets in a delicate and faintly familiar melody, and took a cup of coffee to go sit beside his mother. 

"How are you holding up, Lala?" she asked him.

"Better than I thought I'd be," he admitted. "Though I feel I should be asking you that."

"My children cheer me up," she replied. She reached to pat his cheek. "And I expect I will see him again long before you do."

His mother's faith, like his father's, was unshakable. "But not too soon," he said, catching her hand and kissing it.

"Of course not. I have a grandbaby to meet. And a wedding to plan. That's just this year."

"Planning the wedding already?"

Her eyebrows went up. "Are you telling me I shouldn't be?"

"No, no. I'm just amused. I'll warn Monica the linen swatches will be coming out."

"Have you discussed when? At the change of seasons might be nice. Before it gets too rainy."

"We haven't discussed anything, other than a mutual desire not to be apart again."

The look his mother gave him was emphasized by the sigh that followed. "Lala. Is this about what your father told you? He got a great many things right, but sometimes he was very old fashioned."

"I don't intend to keep her as a mistress. But there is still the question of her career. Do you think it wouldn't cause issues to have the Queen doing concerts and awards shows?"   
"I think it might be a lovely connection with the outside world. You've said you want less isolation and better international relations. A well known face with her thumb on the pulse of American culture sounds like an excellent social ambassador if you ask me."

He tipped his head back, considering. "I suppose it's not much different than the humanitarian tours other monarchs do."

"She may wish to slow her pace, as well. Have a couple of children." Her smile was mischievous. It was good to see her smile.

"I know what you prefer, Mater."

"Mostly I prefer you to be happy. You know my father was a farmer. I was as inappropriate as could be for the Crown Prince to marry, but. . . well, you know how well your father took to being pushed around. Somehow, society adjusted. You have loved her half your life. Whatever comes, things will adjust."

He supposed that was true. It was 2016, people could handle the queen having a career. He looked over to where Monica was playing. "She will make a wonderful queen."

"She will." Mater reached and slid the ring with the intricately carved rubies off her right middle finger. It was her betrothal ring, and he'd never seen her take it off before. Before he could protest, she reached out and folded it into his hand.

"Mater, I can't-"

"Hush," she said, cutting him off. "This has been going on 6 generations now." Though he knew none of the previous Queens had been asked to take it off a week and a half after their husband died.

He leaned over and kissed her cheek. "Thank you. Monica will be very touched."

"Reward me with grandbabies," she replied.

"As many as I can manage," he assured her solemnly.

Monica had finished her song, and was now gamely trying to teach Tamara's oldest how to play the marimba. They'd have beautiful children.

He tucked the ring away in a pocket and went to go join them, sliding an arm around Monica's waist. She turned her head to kiss him. "Hi there."

"Hello. The music was lovely."

She shrugged a little. "Music makes people happy. And it's what I'm good at, so. . ."

He kissed her gently. "Thank you."

She stroked his brow in return. "You getting tired?"

"I was thinking of strolling back to our room."

The evening seemed to be winding down anyway, so they said their goodbyes and walked back down the hall hand in hand. "How is your mother?" she asked.

"Good. Better than expected. She's looking to the future, finding the positive. I think it's good."

"They say widows are more resilient than widowers. Women process their emotions instead of hiding them, or hiding from them. I think it helps us live longer."

He grinned. "Women are superior, I've always said as much."

"Your Highness!" He turned at the sound to she Bahati jogging down the hall toward him. "Sorry to disturb you. Captain Rogers' plane is inbound. He radioed ahead they have people that need medical attention."

T'Challa stifled a sigh. So much for his evening plans. "All right. Arrange for doctors, EMTs and gurneys to meet the plane. I will be there momentarily."

"I'll come with you," Monica said. 

He nodded, taking her hand. "Make sure rooms are made up," he added to Bahati. "At least four, if I remember correctly."

She looked at a tablet she was holding. "He said he had four in addition to himself." She nodded. "I'll get on it."

"Thank you," he called after her. He looked down at Monica with a wry smile. "I think our peaceful weekend is officially over."

"I have faith we'll still grab some moment here and there," she said, leaning up to kiss his cheek.

The jet—borrowed from him—set down on the same tarmac where he'd landed. It was a larger one, with a back ramp, and Rogers was the first out. He carried a woman in his arms, whom T'Challa expected was Wanda Maximoff. It was hard to tell the way she was curled against him, all you could really see was the baggy prison uniform and long hair that hadn't been washed in a while.

Behind him was Sam Wilson, looking like he'd gone a couple of rounds in a boxing match, and a man T'Challa didn't recognize, who was easing down the ramp a wheelchair containing Dr. Yee, the psychologist he'd brought to see Monica all those years ago. 

He gestured to the medical staff and they went to meet Steve with a couple peeling off speak with Sam. "Captain," he said, joining them as well. "What can we do to help?" 

"You're doing quite a bit already," he said with a smile. He set Wanda down on the gurney that had been brought in front of him. She stirred, and he said, "Don't worry, we're safe." The doctor came and reached immediately to look at the angry red burns on her neck. 

"They had her in a shock collar." The voice came from behind him, and he turned and looked down at Dr. Yee, who added. "Hello, Your Highness, Monica. Small world."

"Dr. Yee," T'Challa replied. "This is a very pleasant surprise. Will you be staying with us as well?"

"I did just aid and abet a felony so, yeah, probably."

"Holy shit you're Monica Lynne," the man pushing her said.

"Indeed I am," she said smoothly. "Welcome to Wakanda."

"I'm. . .wow," was all the man said.

Dr. Yee turned to look at him in amusement, and on the other side of the ramp, Sam called, "For fuck's sake, Lang."

Lang—T'Challa assume Wow wasn't his name—pointed at Monica. "Dude, that's Monica Lynne."

"I noticed that." He glanced at Steve still talking to the doctors, and waved off the medic inspecting his face before coming over to them. "Your Highness and Your Divaness, this is Scott Lang, our court jester." T'Challa was actually glad Sam had come. He kind of reminded him of Jay—who happened to be the only other person to be quite that abjectly insolent to him. It was refreshing. They'd get along.

Monica reached for Scott's hand. "It's very nice to meet you." It got her an awestruck mumble in reply.

"I'm Sam Wilson," he said when she turned to him. "Don't shake my hand, my fingers are broken."

"You should have the medics look at that," T'Challa said mildly, in the same tone Sam had used to inform them of the injury. The other man waved him off and T'Challa was not enough of a hypocrite to push.

He turned back to Scott. "Process of elimination tells me you were the giant man?"

"That's me." He tilted his head. "Huh. That's way better than Ant Man. Guys! I'm changing my name."

Sam rolled his eyes. Steve came over to them. "They're taking Wanda to the hospital." He looked at Sam. "You're going with her." It did not sound like a request.

For a moment, Sam looked like he'd protest anyway. Then Dr. Yee said quietly, "I'm sure Wanda would like a familiar face to stay with her."

That got Sam to nod and walk over to the ambulance. Steve cast Dr. Yee a grateful look.

"We have rooms being prepared for you all," T'Challa said. "Would you like something to eat first?"

"Yes," Scott said immediately. "The food in the clink was terrible."

"Food would be great, thank you," Steve said.

"Follow me, I'll show you the dining room."


	17. Chapter 17

Monica fell in step next to Dr. Yee. "Curiosity is killing me. How did you get mixed up in this?"

The other woman smiled, thought she looked tired. "In addition to treating the rich and famous, I consult with the US military and various other institutions. Including SHIELD when it was functioning. Secretary Ross called me to the Raft to do 'evaluations' on the prisoners." She took her hands off her chair wheels to do the air quotes. "When I saw what they had been doing to them - especially Wanda and Sam - I made efforts to get them out. Eventually I got a hold of someone who could get me in touch with Captain Rogers."

"I noticed who they chose to beat up. How very American."

Dr. Yee looked grim. "Yes. Clint Barton didn't look much better, but their efforts were clearly focused on Sam. He _was_ the most likely to know where Steve had gone."

"Of course," she said dryly. Factually true, and also nice and convenient. But then, that was kind of reality back home. By virtue of being famous she managed to dodge a lot of the casual and not-so-casual racism that used to be part of her life. But not all of it, and that certainly was a tick in the "pro" column for retiring and not leaving Wakanda again. "I don't agree with the idea that the Avengers should galavant about unsupervised, but I also feel like, clearly, the US has demonstrated they can't handle doing so. I'm pretty certain the Accords did not say the first-offense punishment for violations was indefinite, trial-free imprisonment and torture."

"No, I didn't see any mention of it. Nothing about that mess was handled properly. Unfortunately, I didn't have the power to do anything about it."

"Except apparently help stage a jailbreak."

"Well, I like to work in subtle ways, you know."

Monica smiled. "It's really good to see you, you know."

"Oh, the feeling is mutual." She looked up at Monica. "How are you feeling?"

"Good. Happy. Strong enough to hold myself up and him too. It's been a _hell_ of a couple weeks."

"I imagine it has." She squinted up at the palace. "Maybe it's good I'm here."

"There are a lot of changes coming," she said. "I think I'm retiring. I think."

"That's a big decision."

The rest of them went to a doorway that had step, and Monica waved Dr. Yee over to a doorway a little ways down that was level. "You ever heard the song _Midnight Train to Georgia_?"

"I love that song. You sing it in your concerts, don't you?"

"I do. I was kind of a thing for T'Challa and I. I sang it like a touchstone."

"Like the panthers," she supplied.

Monica touched the necklace she wore—something she did pretty much every day now. "Like the panthers. But. . . I've kind of taken it to heart. I'd rather live in his world than live without him in mine."

"It's a lovely sentiment. And I admit, you do seem more settled."

She took her around the long way to the elevator, which it took her a moment to find. T'Challa liked taking the stairs so she'd picked up the same habit. "I am," she said, surprising herself with the certainty of it.

"Good." It was said firmly. "I'm happy for you, Monica."

Once they found her room, Monica got Dr. Yee settled and sent someone to find her a couple of changes of clothes. It wasn't the sort of this T'Challa would think of, so she called Bahati to make sure the men got clothes as well. Food was ordered to be brought up, communications lines were arranged so she could call her family at her leisure, and then at some exhaustingly late hour, Monica finally made her way back to her rooms.

T'Challa was there, changed into pajamas and a robe. He was reading something official looking and nursing a drink. But he looked up and grinned when she came in. "I heard from the hospital. Ms. Maximoff and Sergeant Wilson are both on the mend."

"Good," she replied. "Dr. Yee is fed and settled and approves of me moving to Wakanda."

"Sounds like you have a productive evening."

She sat on the other end of the couch. "Both of us. It's probably well past bedtime, though." She poked him with her foot. "At least time to stop working."

Obediently, he put his papers down and stretched an arm out for her to tuck under. "Yes, dear."

She climbed into his lap. "You doing okay?"

"I am," he said, sounding a little surprised. "Bracing a bit for the next problem, but mostly I'm all right. How are you?"

"I'm good. Getting the hang if this . . . whatever my role is. Concubine is not the right word. Consort?"

He paused a moment. "How do you feel about queen?"

She leaned back to look at him, trying to ascertain if she'd heard that properly. "Are you asking me to marry you?"

"Yes." He shifted, rummaging in his pocket, then held up a beautiful, antique looking ruby ring. "I am."

She stared at it. "Holy shit, you have a ring."

"It's the traditional betrothal ring of the royal family. You would be the seventh generation. My mother gave it to me today. She volunteered," he added quickly. "I didn't rip a widow's engagement ring off."

Monica laughed, then sobered. "You can't go off the reservation on me again."

"I know," he said solemnly. "I promise."

She took a breath, feeling both surprised and like this had been inevitable for the better part of 20 years. "Then my answer is yes."

He grinned widely, looking, for a moment, like the young man she'd first met. Then he drew her in for a kiss that was full of heat and promise. When they parted he picked up her hand and slid the ring onto it.

"You don't have to quit singing if you don't want to," he said quietly.

"Really?" she asked, surprised by that more than the proposal.

"Yes. We'd need to revise your security team and I would like you to cut back on your tours or fold in some humanitarian and political visits in with them. But I think you would be a fantastic ambassador between Wakanda and the rest of the world."

She felt a lump in her throat. She'd been ready to give everything up. "Thank you." She stroked his arm. "I would like to take a break, though."

"You can do that to. Whatever you like. And we can sit down and discuss exactly how much you want to do and how we'll make it work."

"I was hoping the first order of business might be, well, heirs."

"Mater would be quite happy for that, yes. Though planning the wedding is going to take a while."

Neither of those statements said anything about how he felt on the topic. "I'm just. . . not getting any younger, I guess."

He rubbed her back and gave her hip a little squeeze. "I love children. We can start whenever you like. Wakandan styles are very forgiving, you could be a pregnant bride."

She suddenly felt giddy. "Well, then, I'll ditch my birth control in the morning."

"Sounds exciting," he said with a grin.

She bent her head to kiss him, and whispered, "Come to bed."

Shifting, he stood with her in his arms. Sometimes she almost forgot how strong he was. "Yes, dear," he murmured, walking towards the bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for sticking with this one, I know the posting schedule got a little wonky there. December was not a good month for Nyx, health-wise.
> 
> _Reconstruction_ will continue with Sam and Lani's story, coming in early 2017.


End file.
